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THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
The next two chapters are dedicated to William Burroughs 1914-1997.
Chapter 9
"...there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express,
nothing from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express,
together with the obligation to express." -- Beckett
---
I got my computer back. I was amazed. They fixed it in seconds.
Then I was afraid it was on that Fed Ex plane that crashed in Newark. It
wasn't.
The more I knew of Smalhausen, the more I felt he was draining me.
This was something new. I was used to being whipped, but this was like I
was being eaten out from inside. He was taking everything. On the
surface, there were no marks. At least, non e that he had left. But I
still had my other clients. Tom was writing about two twins he was
butchering in Alabama. Soft, pliant southern cupcakes. That's not a
redundancy, by the way. They were twins, but not with each other. So
they were two twins . They were also cousins. To tell you the truth, I
wasn't following it. I mean, I get stuff from Tom every day about the
girls he's leaving in the dirt or out in the swamp. Or hanging in a barn.
He had killed these girls' sisters the week before. So now he had four
twins on his notches.
Smalhausen really did have two phalluses. I was amazed. Didn't
it hurt? You have no idea. The division was complete, with one ball to
each cock. Do they?... You know... He said for me to lift my skirt. As
soon as he saw my stocking tops, they bot h stood up. That wasn't all.
Watch, he said. They wrapped around each other in a corkscrew. Smal, I
said, do you have any idea what you could do with that? He shrugged, and
the dicks fell apart. It's just something I do, he said. By themselves,
the y were each thinner than a regular dick, but not much. I also noticed
the cat had sliced him on the bias, one being a little larger at the base
than the other, which was bigger at the nubbin. Which one do you, uh...
Piss out of? They both work. The d octor, well, he was sort of one,
who... I was embarassed to go to a hospital and tell them... have to
explain the cat... you know, so I asked this guy who lived in the building
at the time, who I knew did... tattoos. It was illegal in New York at
that ti me. Not like now. So he had to work out of his apartment. He
sewed me up. For him, it was just another form of body enhancement. He
asked if I wanted him to insert some stones or other objects under the
skin. But I said no. Having two penises was enough. He pulled his
pants up.
I felt sort of sorry for him, but to tell you the truth, I wasn't
much interested. This is the lower east side. There are tons of freaks
out there. Smal was just another small cog in the lineup.
How could you have known what I looked like in..., when was it,
you were with Claire? I wasn't even born. He said he already knew. He
had always known. Because I looked exactly like a young Katherine
Hepburn. That was who he had seen in Claire's fac e in the frantic moment
of passion he was trying to rip through her fishnet pantyhose. As proof,
he took out a coffeetable book of photos from her career. On the cover
was a picture from a movie called Philadephia Story, in a long white dress
and wide b rimmed hat. My God. It's Kelly! No. It's you. She played a
debutante named Tracy Lord. For some reason, the name sounded familiar.
This was before color but one knew she had red hair. Tracy's ex-husband,
played by Cary Grant, referred to her as "Red." He said the movie came
out the year he was born. She was already 33, the same age as my mother.
I had my own troubles. I'd really been bummed when my laptop
broke. What made it worse was that I couldn't even turn it on to off-load
my files. Besides my stories, it was filled with tons of jpegs. Of me
and Kelly and some of our friends. I wonder if they peeked, the people
who fixed it. It came back so fast, I doubt it. But it's hard not to be
paranoid, especially in today's world. The whole thing may have been a
setup to get me to send it in, so they could rip off my files. Evidence.
Oh yeah , it had all the addresses of people who I write to on the net.
All their letters. My raw files. Oh shit, Kyle's raw file. They could
really do a number on him. Then there are the congressmen and senators.
And that nice Air Force general who wants t o look like Darci Kistler.
Pataki. Guiliani. Marv. Did you hear that they found Marv's name in the
dead dominatrix's little black book? Yeah. It was in the Post. Well,
that doesn't mean anything. Just because I have someone's name in my book
doesn 't mean they fuck me. Does it? I mean, where I get paid. Not like
our Mayor who says he's going to pay you, and then doesn't. Most of the
guys who have me are pretty good about paying. But believe me, if I ever
slept with Guiliani, the money would ha ve to be cash up front. None of
this "language of the reward" bullshit. What kind of talk is that?
Well, I'm not going to get into politics. Not tonight. It's been
a long week. I need to unwind. The Times magazine had an article in this
week's issue about Eagle Pass. I clipped it out and sent it to my
grandmother. It seems that Eagle Pass is now the crossing point of choice
for the Smoke Road. The only thing was, for some reason, I had always
thought Eagle Pass was more in the center of the state. It's not. It's
on the Rio Grande, halfway between Laredo and El Paso. Gran's father came
here i n the 1890s from Ireland. At one time, he was a Texas Ranger, at
least that's the story. He married a rich widow who had lots of land.
Which he sold later when he took the family back to Ireland. Gran's older
brother hated Ireland. He went back to Eagle Pass. He's dead now, but
his descendants are still there. Gran keeps in touch.
Smalhausen has been driving me wild. Ever since he admitted to me
that he cross dresses, he has been insatiable for attention. As if he
thought I thought it was the most interesting thing in the world. Smal, I
said. Get real. This is the east village . There are fag hags all over
the place. Shit. You go in a diner in the morning, and some queen in a
wig and waitress uniform takes your order. What makes you think you're so
different?
I got a lot of nice letters this week. In one, Smokey Joe said
that someone named Dafney DeWitt had been asking about me. He sent me one
of her stories, "Hard Candy." It was great. Really clean writing style.
I wish I could do that. I wonder what s he looks like. Is she young?
Blonde. What. Like Fuller's sister, Donna? The guy she writes about. I
might put her in one of my stories.
I liked to imagine being trashed in different people's stories.
Viddler, for instance. Fiction is such an odd thing. Mario Vargas Llosa
wrote that "literature is fire. It's mission is to arouse, to disturb, to
alarm, to keep men in a constant state o f dissatisfaction with
themselves." Smalhausen is bringing me down more and more as I try to
work on the character. I think I made a mistake in creating him, but now
that I have, I can't just drop it. Don't ask me to explain. I can't go
back. I just have to see where it goes. But it's sure messing up my sex
life, I can tell you. I feel nothing anymore. Everything is so
mechanical. The fans outside are blasting; like a B29 trying to take off
from the courtyard. On the roof of the building next door.
Kelly comes in and says I have a customer. I go and service him.
It's over quick.
I come back. Smalhausen is out on the fire escape. He climbs in.
The odd thing is, he's not crippled anymore. He walks around on those
spikes and there's not even a limp. And his back is straight. If he
looked like a man, he'd be almost handsome. I know he thinks he looks
like me, but really, he looks like a 57 year old man in drag. The makeup
is horrible. Smeared. No lip lines. Too much mascara. The wig looks
like a mop. It's not. It's a real wig, but its red plastic hair is
filled with kn ots and tangles. He's wearing a black poor boy undershirt
for a dress. How do I look? I'm almost tempted to tell him, but I say,
oh, fine. Fabulous.
Smal.
What?>
This isn't going to work. I don't want to write about faggots. I
know you're not gay. You're totally hetero. But you know, this schtick
has been done hundreds of times. I'm trying to write a novel about real
people. I'm sorry you have this tendency , you're a nice guy, but could
you just go away and let me get on with my life?
You're rejecting me because I'm a cripple, he says.
Oh God. They all say that. Trying to lay a guilt trip on me.
I'm not. Besides, you're not crippled. Just look at yourself in the
mirror. When I take this off, I'll be crippled. Well then, leave it on.
If drag's what it takes to heal yourself, the n do it. He said he
couldn't. It... What... What would your mother say? I... She'd probably
shit. Or maybe she'd like it. She always wanted a daughter. Now she has
one.
He stared at himself in the mirror. The dress was too short, and
exposed his panties, which was how he always drew me. I wondered, what
did that mean>? The only answer I got was the clown with his pants
falling down. That was how he saw women. With their ass sticking out, or
their panties down around their ankles. And tits hanging out. Now he was
the same way. Essentially, exposed. Vulnerable. Stupid. Except his
panties kept his twin dicks pulled up into his crease. Probably wrapped
up together like two snakes fucking. I stared at him. Smal? He had this
look on his face. Smal? um? What are you doing? Nothing. Two slabs of
meat with a long clit between them. Is that what that dick artist had
done to him? So that he was totally self suf ficient. Wait a minute, I
thought. The dick was what was split. That couldn't be right. Unless
there was something else. Down there. His balls, maybe. What were they
up to?
Why is it that men are so fascinated with their peepee tails? I
mean, you would think they were women the way they make love to them.
Maybe they are. Maybe the real women are the men's dicks, and we're just
an extension of them. Sort of an accessory. To keep them happy. Other
than that, we're totally worthless. Smalhausen expected me to be his
slave and worship his dicks. I was to treat each one with proper respect.
And I was not to prefer one over the other. Because otherwise, I might
set off a conflict. And one or the other would suffer. And he would feel
it. He would be torn apart. Did I understand, Cody? I said I did.
We went back across the hall to his studio. I felt I was in for a
long evening. Smalhausen, I said... Started to. That's when he knocked
me down. With his fist. He'd never hit me before. Now we're going to
have a good time.
Let the bloody mayhem be off camera. I don't need to repeat it,
do I? Smal's name was Mistress Erica. Frau von Smalhausen. That was his
mother's name. He transferred what she had done to him through his fists
into me. Every guy who's wanted to beat up his mother can get something
back. That was just the beginning. When he was done, we went to some
bar, and two guys took him apart. By the time we got home, he was
crippled again. Mistress Erica was.
I felt empty inside as he fucked me. It might as well have been a
dildo.
Just because your mind is dead doesn't mean your body is not
useful.
That double helix up inside of me. Like dna. Smal, what is this?
I've got three tits. He'd sewn us together. At the nipples. Smal, I'm
not a service station. In fact, I was attached to everybody else. He was
fucking Frau Smalhausen. The trailer was incandescent. It was giving off
sparks. What are they doing over there? Gran asked. I was attached at
her fingertips. They were working me. I was twisted and turned. Kelly
was attached too. Like an attache case under my left armpit. She was in
side my heart. I felt nothing. Maybe it's for the best. He worked his
urethera up my sinus cavity.
I was like a balloon, feeding him energy through my cadeussus.
The waves went up and down the spirally things. You've got a nice touch.
Now snake it in there. They were spelunkering my insides. Smal, where
are you? I'm right here. I can't see you.
You're going blind. Hey, wait a minute... You don't have a choice you
know. There was no way back. I felt polluted by the time we were
finished. Sex isn't supposed to bring you down. Is it? How do you feel?
Okay. That's not what I asked. How d o you feel? uh, with my feet.
What else? My head? My heart. I don't know. How do I feel? I'm asking
you. Where am I? In Smal's belly. oh. Am I... is he pregnant? How do
you feel about that? Stop playing games. Am I pregnant? No. oh. how d
o you feel? Stop asking that. I feel fine. Get up on a stool. Why?
Because I said to. He did. I did. Which is which? We can't both do it.
You might think that having your tits tied to someone else's would cramp
your movements. But eventually, y ou get used to it. You accomodate.
And you move on. Actually, the whole trailer park is sort of hooked up
this way. Most of it. Although there's a small population of holdouts
out in the woods.
You can't possibly mean that?
I do. He put a sock on it. It's amorphic, if you know what I mean.
There's a lot of individual freedom left, if you know how to move. People
with the right moves are popular. Those who can't adjust get sort of left
out. If you know what I mean? The y aren't holdouts. They're just sort
of isolated within the greater body. Like photons. Or genetic particles.
The holdouts are completely outside, but within the parameter of the camp.
So they aren't completely separated. Like Mr. Cuperand. His tra iler is
in the middle of the park, but he has never really joined. Then there are
the deviants. The sexual criminal. We get a lot of them. After they get
out. People on the list. Who can't live any place else. They come here.
We eventually find ou t about them. And then there's a lot of warping of
the body politic. Should we keep them or boot them out. You see a lot of
these guys on the road nowadays. A whole population of sexual deviants
floating around the country from one town to the next. Forced out of
Middleboro, they move to Essex. From Essex to Cardor, to the Sphinx
Hotel. On the Beach. The Sphinx is full of paroled rapists and sex
offenders like Kelly, I've forgotten his last name already, and, come on,
what's his name, the guy who killed Jennifer Levin. I forget his name,
too. That's why we have the list. To help us remember. He's here, too.
On the circuit. Making the rounds of Megan's law. What was I saying? I
realized I was in Smalhausen's brain. What is this, Smal? I w as locked
in. I couldn't move. I was pinned down. I was.... Smallllll get this
off of me. It was ecquisite. Better than napalm. They all end up in
Europe or making the rounds of the Lido you've got to get inside Hilda's
brain. See how it works. Wh o died? She was 58. Smal's age. It might
be him. Or was it her? Who survived the shootout. I noticed his brain
was like the inside of a limo. No. It was like a... oh my god, the
colors. Who made this mess? Grover. He should have ... Smal, you and
him, you didn't? no. never. Smal, what went on.... I wanted him to
find me a woman. Did he? No. Ever? No. And you hung around him?
Let's see. Fifeen years. Something has to be done about these colors.
My God, what is all this junk? It wa s like a cesspool in there. Smal,
you need a ... I was getting crazy. What is this? It's a shower. The
famous shower. Why did you want to see that? I don't know. Smal, this
is ugly. You've got to stop. Don't you have anything beautiful in your
li fe. You. Besides that? He thought. He was dead. It was so... arid
in there. Smal, show me one thing. One thing only that you think is
beautiful. Close your eyes, Smal and do it. Well? Nothing. Or it went
by so fast I couldn't see it. Again, Sm al. It doesn't have to be long.
Just do it. Shit. All he came up with was a pair of Nikes. It was the
command. You said do it and... I know. Okay. Do it without thinking do
it. I saw something that looked like the tanned horse skin, maybe the
side of a teepee. Or was it a bird's wing?> Then he showed me a toy dump
truck. It was pink and blue. I wondered what that meant. A spirit of
play. Does it arouse you, Smal? I was blinded by the sight. No. Then I
saw butterflies. Purple butterflies. What are you thinking about, Smal>
Tanya. Who is Tanya. Maria's daughter. The woman who gave you this
apartment. When she married and moved to England. Yes. Maria's
daughter. Yes. What about her, Smal? Tell me. nothing. You can't
escape, Sma l. I'm inside you, remember? Smal is one of the people who
write to me. I get inside their brain and start feeling around. Pretty
soon, they're doing stuff they never thought possible. Like sitting here
in a bar in drag, right Smal? Waiting for a pi ckup. He had, however,
eluded me. Something had turned him on back there. What was it? I could
feel the burners warming up. Smal groping the girl. He said he wouldn't.
I believed him. But he thought he would. Might. That's what kept him
bottled up. His fear of what he might go. He'd been crazy about Maria,
or thought he had. But she never would have him. Although she had plenty
of others. Dozens. Which she told him about. On their pathetic dates.
He just sat there and listened. And beg ged. How do you feel about that,
Smal? Does it make you angry. It didn't. He just sat there. Waiting
for Maria's daughter to show up. She must be about fourteen. I had an
idea. Smal, what kind of picture would you draw for Tanya? Come on,
Smal. Show me. I can't. Why not? I can only show it to her. Oh come
on, Smal. Forget it. Everyone has one. It rimes with Delores. He
looked down at himself. All they are are rubber tits. Pink balloons
filled with water. Gushing around. Slapping acro ss his chest as he
bounces. Taking him in. It's sort of like a diving suit. You put it on
to go down. And then you come up with treasures. Gifts from the sea.
Like what? He showed me this plastic dump truck. Does that make you
happy, Smal? Well, no. But it's kind of cute. What is? The truck.
Using it for pencils and stuff. Erasers. It's a toy. Put it away. His
mother's house. The double wide out there on the sand dunes of the
barrier island. Waiting for Big Betsy. The second hurricane of the
season. He had these whimsical little things scattered around the
trailer, and it drofe the old lady mad. She couldn't stand it. Seeing
those Barbie dolls. All over the place. He was 57 and he collected baby
dolls. She saw all dolls as babies . Not full grown women such as
Barbie. There were also plastic watering cans. Yellow and blue. Flashes
of humor on the old lady's retina. It bothered her. She wanted
everything to be mauve. Sapia colored. Brown. Her trailer was filled
with shit b ecause she could never make it to the bathroom on time. And
even when she did, some usually fell on the floor. But with her eyes it
blended in, so you couldn't notice it. His touches of color disturbed the
balance. Riccochetting around the room, or be ing caught in a mirror.
How do I look, she asked. He said okay. She also hated his art work.
The long legged women with the big tits. She was obsessed the neighbors
would find out and she'd have to move. Do you know what moving a double
wide at her age would constitute? My son the sex offender hiding out in
his mother's trailer. Where else can I go? What did you do? Nothing.
But I still have the guilt. Eventually, they find out. Like the war
criminals. You carry the guilt for the uncommitted act with you
everywhere. He knew my wife's name and the business I owned. No one
around here knew I had a dry cleaning business. How'd you find out?
Jesus. This is the information age, isn't it? Didn't he ever tell anyone
who he was married to? Why the secret? Why the big deal? What does it
matter if we know his wife's maiden name? What's he protecting? Work on
it. Smal, you run a private investigation agency? Yeah. How'd you know?
There are licenses for people to do most anything. Just g o down and fill
out a form. Smal had a diploma on the wall. It was from a barber school.
He couldn't do that either. Maigret asked a question. Who's body was it?
Come here. I'll show you.
*
THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 10
"Just because he sleeps with boys, takes drugs and smokes dope
doesn't mean that he tolerates or supports the majority of junkies,
homosexuals or potheads." -- Barry Miles in "William Burroughs," a
biography, Hyperion, 1993.
"[His wife's death -- he shot her in the head --] brought me into
contact with the invader, the Ugly Spirit and maneuvered me into a
lifelong struggle, in which I have had no choice but to write my way out."
-- Burroughs on why he became a writer.
---
I decided to change Smalhausen's name to Jean-Luc. To make him,
as it were, a Frenchman. There's a French cafe/restaurant opening around
the corner from me. I went in there for a cappochino, to see how it was.
Of course, being in New York, there's a "no smoking" sign. But together
with the sugar shock, there was enough ambiance that it gave me the idea.
I will tell you, all this obsession with cross-dressing and gender
insecurity was bringing me down. I don't have anything against drag
queens. Th ey just don't turn me on. Jean-Luc would be something quite
different, a character out of those gritty French films of the thirties
and forties. Narrow faced, ascetic, maybe with a strain of Algerian
Jewish blood, a cigarette perpetually dangling from t he lower lip. Isn't
it interesting that two of the most important French writers of
existential awareness were Irish: Beckett and Joyce. The paintings would
still be there. Of the women; but with Jean-Luc there would be none of
this guilt for what some one else had done to the Jews. The Germans
kicked their ass. So what? Or being on a Kafka list of sexual offenders.
That was too central European. Too American. All Frenchmen are sexual
offenders. It's in the blood. Matisse's wife telling him he w as a dirty
old man. But he was Matisse. So what? Renoir stroking the behinds of
his teenage models. Horrifying the starving Modigliani. In France, I was
already legal. Yes. I had to get away. To cut out the bullshit. I felt
like a bug crawling ar ound on the surface of a vast tin planet, looking
for a way to get inside. But why, I wondered, did I believe that there
was anything in there? What evidence was there, at least any worth
having, of any value? Maybe there was nothing. Or even more vil e
garbage.
Jean-Luc offered no help. He was totally unconcerned. He did not
have the hangups of mother and false sex. The idea of dressing as a woman
made him laugh. He asked if I had seen that Renoir film where the
soldiers in a German prison camp dress up in drag and sing the Marseilles.
I had. But I can't remember its name. Last night, I saw a short film
taken of a French cabaret in the 30s or 40s; I don't know if was from a
movie or the real thing. It was a far cry from the trendy little bistros
that su ck off the tourists in New York and I suppose Paris today. It was
a room that looked like a coal cellar with some tables set up in it. A
woman stood at one end of the room and sang in a thin voice, and the
people at the tables sang, too. They were anyt hing but trendy or chic.
The men wore overcoats, and the women looked like wallpaper. This is the
place Jean-Luc hangs out, the way Hemingway would have seen it when he
went there to write.
Because the fact is, just because Jean-Luc is not guilty, does not
mean he is whole. He is constantly describing himself as he moves about
his apartment, his studio, putting things together. Taking them apart.
Smoke trailing around his head as he seek s to understand the women in his
life, and to paint them. He just does it different from Smalhausen. With
a certain fatalism. Knowing that it can't be done. But caught in a
webwork that requires him to keep trying.
I noticed one of the Barbies had a rip in her leg. That was
interesting. How had that happened? Had she fallen? I had had to move
the monitor to hook up the laptop and put the 286 back in the corner.
Probably it had happened then. This particular d oll, a stunning blonde,
stands leaning against the monitor, wearing a short silver dress, her tits
thrust out. I did not know their skin could be torn like that. This
really was part of Martin's book. He had a collection of them on his
desk. And I did not want to deal with that now. That is a totally
different companion volume. One I will work on this fall. But no. I do
not want to deal with the Barbies now. But it is interesting. I will
have to check this out further.
I have had Barbies for as long as I can remember. All kinds. But
it has been only recently that I have become interested in the psychology
of Barbie. Also, the number of men I know who buy Barbies. Actually, I
think that Barbie ought to be a generic term, i.e. barbie, as in human,
dog, etc. because it is clear that each one of these dolls has her own
personality. At least as far as the people who own them are concerned. I
know you probably think that's crazy. After all, it's only a toy. But at
so me point it goes beyond that. Martin gets very uptight when someone
starts to play with his Barbies. It's almost like they are feeling up his
wife. In front of him. Or daughter. In fact, I think he could handle it
better if it were his daughter. It would be more rational.
Understandable. But like I said, I'm not going to get into this now.
I'll tell you something else, too. Even though I admire Beckett,
I don't believe that life is hopeless. Maybe I was a little off, when I
included him with Joyce. Joyce was not a fatalist. Just the opposite.
He has Dedalus exclaim, I go to forge the unexplored consciousness of my
race in the smithy of my soul. That's pretty upbeat. Of course, I do
believe that all politicians are venal liars, and that people in general
are sheep being led to the slaughter. But that's not the same as life
being mea ningless. Also, I'm not like Anne Frank who said she thought
all human beings were good at heart. I don't think good has anything to
do with life. Good is what makes people comfortable. But life isn't
about comfort. It couldn't care less. I think ma ybe all these diseases
that are coming out of Africa, like AIDS and ebola are really life
continuing to evolve. That maybe we should be welcoming them as new life,
the way maggots feed on the corpse of their dying mother. After all, if
life came from th e stars on a meteor millions of years ago, who is to say
it isn't still arriving? Maybe ebola arrived on a rock that landed in the
African jungle and just took off. Well, if it's such hot stuff when it
came from Mars billions of years ago, why not now? Why be so exclusionary?
I mean, face it, human beings are just a swamp of exotic diseases that
managed to get it together enough to stand up and walk around. When we're
gone, the bacterium will still be there, crawling around in what comes
next. How c an you call that meaningless? It's just another form of
racism. I'm better than you are. This is a whites only golf club. etc.
No Irish need apply.
Each one goes down his own chute. And at the end, there's a guy
with a sledge hammer or a knife, and zip. He holds up the head. Medusa.
Mary, Queen of Scots. Marie Antoinette. The crowd cheers. Somewhere out
in middle America, Tom is driving aroun d in his battered old Ford, offing
teenage playmates. Sending me the raw data. What it was like. What he
felt. How she looked. What she wore. How she begged and pleaded, and
offered to do anything he wanted. And she did. And then he offed her.
Or he didn't. Just let her off somewhere, and kept going. She had to get
her own self home. Not in itself a non-fatal chore. To tell you the
truth, I haven't read most of it. It's such garbage. Even when I change
the names, do search and replace, to p ut my name or Kelly's in place of
the girl's or Tom's. I realize I've gone beyond it, the place where it
turns me on. Or even grabs my attention. I have this facility for not
being able to do the same thing twice. Step in the same waters. Alter
time. Each time becomes a different one. I drift from one episode to the
other. But none comes next. All exist at the same time. Co-terminal.
Beckett becomes a'Beckett. A hole in time. Murder in the Cathedral
becomes Waiting for Godot. Passage to Indi a becomes the Mahabarata. The
Bagavagita. The Song of Songs. I stand in one place, and the universe
begins to curve around my feet like a sandbar being washed away by the
sea. I trust I am getting through to you. If I am, you have been there,
too. Y ou take the twigs and you lay them on the floor of the pipe, as if
they were a grate. Never throw away the seeds. All things have a use.
And then you lay the leaves over them, in a kind of mat. The seeds can be
grown to a paste. With a little water. Or it can be put into the pipe
and smoked, too. Take your time. The smoke road is a very interesting
one.
The twigs allow air to get down under and cool the mixture as it
passes into the stem. One is less likely to choke. Then one turns into
an animal. And goes out into the night. Different persons become
different animals. Personally, I like being a de er. A gazelle. An
antelope. Luc is more like a panther. We are incompatible. We fight all
the time. He threatens to kill me. We do the apache. The Apache is a
dance in which Frenchmen dance like Indians. Or at least the way they
thought Indians d ance. It is outlawed now, but in it's time, it was
quite popular. One saw it in every cabaret. It was even on the Ed
Sullivan show. Many times. During the fifties. Luc insists. He saw it.
In fact, that's where he learned how to do it.
I will demonstrate. I did not ever want to get up. Again. no.
I hit the table legs like a row of bowling pins and everything scattered.
Strike. These were not hardwood floors, either. Keenly polished. These
were concrete. Or rough stone cellars. Where people were having a bottle
of wine. Listening to French songs. Singing the Marseilles, and Luc was
tossing his girl friend around. A young red head, with a nasty mouth and
hot flashing eyes. You had to discipline someone like that, or she got
out of hand, and you lost face with the other guys. So he slapped her
face, right in front of everybody, and no one said anything. Well, it was
his right. Then she pulled a knife. And he hit her. Took the knife
away, and knocked her down. This was great stuff. She started to get up,
and he kicked her in the face. Then he sent her spinning across the floor
and she slammed into the bar. Some men moved their legs as she rolled
around. Her dress was up over her knickers. Luc went and got her and d
ragged the young teenager back into the center of the room. Then he drop
kicked her. She went down hard. Blood was coming out of her mouth. I
tell you, it made me hard. Just watching.
You usually had a jazz band. Le Jazz hot. They played all the
favorites of the day. The girl got up and attacked him from behind. He
drove his elbow into her rib. Turned. Hit her again in the rib with his
fist, up under the tit. Picked her up and body slammed her. A couple
more kicks. Then he sat down for a glass of wine. The glasses were very
simple. Nothing special. When the girl attacked him again, he broke one
and slashed her. Perhaps this went a little far. Some of the other women
took her away and bandaged her up. It wasn't his affair, mai oui? No?
Unfortunately, that's about the extent of my French, but you get the
picture? The flair? The zest for life. The Apache was great for that.
In the 1880s, it had drawn them into the Fo llies Bergere, and the Opera.
Every opera had to have its Apache. Otherwise, there would be riots.
Poor reviews. Financial disaster./ Toulouse Latrec displayed this many
times. He was a master. The Apace Dancer, one of his most famous
drawings, rec ently was purchased by a Japanese collector for more than 75
million dollars. Unfortunately, it's a fake. I know. Because Luc did
it. I'm the girl in the picture. It's sort of an after shot. After the
dance is over. After the lamplight dies. Many a girl has been broken;
many a beauty dies. Well, something like. At least a broken nose. Luc
got ten dollars for it. He sells his pictures on the street. In Soho.
People will buy a Luc Godard in Soho, and a few months later, turn around
and sell it for a fantastic profit, claiming its an Ernst or a Klimpt.
We've seen his Kandinskys in exhibitions on television. And several of
his paintings are now claimed to have been seized from Jewish collections
during the Holocaust.
There's one of me by Degas that was the subject of a 60 Minutes
report several months ago. Luc only did it last year. Where did it get
such a provenance? I was curious to know. He said not to ask. If
Smalhausen had seen me in Katherine Hepburn, what was to stop Degas from
seeing me in some young dancer at the Opera? I was still trying to figure
out that reasoning when he hit me again. Degas' Apache is one of the most
valuable paintings in the world. It is now in private hands. The fact
is, very few of these works sell on the open auction. There is a large
black market trade. A secret fraternity that trades them around
anonymously. An auction is, in fact, the worst place to sell a picture.
For one thing, anyone can look at it. And there is a n obvious pleasure
in being able to look at something that almost no one has ever seen; only
a select line of men leading back to the artist and the individual girl.
The other thing is the taxes, the publicity, the snotty remarks about
whether it is auth entic or not. This one, for instance, was in Goring's
private collection. Pretty, isn't she? Look what he did to her.
Wouldn't you like to have the video on that? One might show it off to
one's special friends, after, perhaps a dinner party of select guests and
their girl friends or young mistresses. Something to give them ideas for
the night ahead. Step this way, Gentlemen. There's something I want you
to see. The ladies will please join the gentlemen in the library. They
stood there smirking a s they came in. Who wants to go first?
The year was 1910. The women were hobbled. They had their long
hair up. Their faces were fresh with anticipation and desire. One, a
redhead, was especially beautiful. And bountiful. Her breasts pressed
over the rim of her low bodice. Eddington's S ociety Apache. Just before
the ball. Before departing for the ball. Or the theatre. And then
coming home. For a late supper. And then...
The women talked about the way the woman had been handled. The
man had thrown her across the stage. She landed in a heap. He slapped
her. He kicked her. Ripped off her dress. Hit her again. Exposed her.
Knocked her down. Dragged her up by the ha ir. Back handed her. Kneed
her in the groin. The girl was a limp doll in his hands. But then she
sprang into action and tried to claw his face. A mistake. Now he really
beat her. They could hear her screams. Coming from the next room. Where
Conni e was being beaten for not minding. The girls looked at each other.
Connie came back into the room. Her face red. Tears streaming down her
face. Sit down, Sir Arthur said. She sat down with the others. No one
said anything. We went on talking. A woman needs a firm hand, he said.
Cody wasn't sure she knew what was happening. If she was the
woman in these pictures, who was she? How'd she get there? Luc had
painted them. He must have. He was so good, he could imitate anyone.
But he usually stuck to the impressionists and earl y expressionism.
Renoir's Apache dans Say Wha? was a masterpiece. A titian-haired beauty
is knocked across a table. No one knows who has it. But I know who posed
for it. You want to see the scars?
The cigarette burns. Luc liked to do that. Watch my face. The
shadows. The way the light caught it. He was fascinated with light.
Especially when putting out his cigarette on a woman's tit. That, we have
attributed to Egon Schleile. It is his sty le. His fascination with the
sadistic. He used just the right shade of sick yellow for the background.
Burnt umber for my tit. You should excuse the expression. Many other
painters were represented.
Well, I didn't mean to give a lecture on art and dance. I just
wanted to show they were a part of our life together. Me and Luc. I
moved in with him. Sure, he was older than my father, but there was
something about him that drew me to him. When I th reatened to turn him
in for child abuse, he slapped my face. For statutory rape. WHAm. He
was entirely disinterested. All I had to do was open my mouth and he
would shut it. Naturally, I taunted him all the time. Old man. Faggot.
Second rate artis t. Wow. That really got me beaten. He was really very
touchy about his art. The fact no one bought it unless it had someone
else's name on it. His Vermeers were stunning. Especially the ones they
found in Goring's collection. But they weren't his. If they had been, no
one would have touched them.
I chased him through the bathroom door with a knife. He just got
the door closed before I put it through it. I was trying to pull it out,
when he pulled the door open and hit me in the stomach. He slammed my
face into the door frame. Little pig. I'l l kill you. He nearly did,
too. This was far beyond anything I could expect from Smal. And no drag,
too.
Luc would never have allowed me to get him in a dress. It was
just not something he would do. Even if he had, it would have meant
nothing. Like those soldiers in the Renoir film. It was for a revue,
something to do behind the lines. They were still men. When the news
came that the French had taken some town, I forget which, they sang the
Marseilles as their German guards watched uneasily. A few days later, the
Germans retook the town.
I think it's good when there's a healthy tension between two
people. Especially if they're artistic. Edward Hopper used to beat up
his wife all the time. Then she would write about how wonderful it was in
her journal. On the other hand, if Luc wasn't a successful artist, was it
worth it? I mean, if Francis Bacon beat me up, sure. Or Andy Warhol.
But Luc's paintings only sold when they were by Degas or van Gogh. Van
Gogh's Apache in the Garden at Augsburg Castle is a wild display of color.
Most e xperts insist it has been burned, but the truth is, it's in the
Vatican. This was one of the few paintings he sold direct. I know. I
was there. I could name a few names. But I like staying alive.
I realized that having Luc hitting me was a far cry from
Smalhausen doing it. When Luc hit me, it was existential, because he felt
like it. There was no mother anger behind it. Or if there was, it was
irrelevant. He did not care. He did not even tak e the cigarette butt
out of his mouth. This I liked. This gritty realism. There was no role
play. No room for it. Just earthy violence. And sadism. He was not
above that. The way he cut with the edge of his hand when he cuffed me.
I soon learned to obey.
Of course, the dance was outlawed. It had always been illegal.
But it only went underground. Today it is practiced as assiduously as
ever in the back alleys of the Moulin Rouge and the bayous of Kentucky.
There are even clubs. You can contact them o n the internet. Web pages
that tell when the next competition will be held. And where. Apache Rave
is a contemporary work. Attributed to Segovia. Not Andre, of course.
Klaus. I'm one of the women. This showed a fight between two conchitas.
These often broke out. Usually over something meaningless. Like a man.
She had caught me with her man. I had caught her with mine. What did it
matter? We fought. Me and the blonde. Luc drew it like a comic strip.
When I cut her. On the leg. When the men separated us. When they let us
back together.
There was a lot of cursing and screaming. The redhead was a
hellcat. Stand backk let em fight We were unevenly matched. She was
bigger than me. And had a longer arm. She went for me like I was soap
and water. She washed herself with me. I could feel her stink. I ate
it. Now make her chow down. She made me kneel in the center of the floor
a nd eat out of the dog dish. Like she owned me. There were a lot of
uses for Cody. She was my agent. She disciplined me to view. What am I
bid? Want to fuck my dog? Make her beg. He was desperate. Klaus. Come
back, Klaus. She made a name for herself along the ginza. What am I
doing here/ Enj oy it. You had an anonymous bidder. Sold to an
American>? What will you give me for her? There was a lot of trading in
the back office. Maybe I could provide you with space for your meetings,
and a servant to take care of your needs. This is her. B uy her. She's
yours.
She kicked Cody again in the breast. The young teenager just
knelt there. Apache de Guerre. A Bridge too Far. To Make it or Not.
Going for Broke. Up a Lazy River. She wrote titles. That was it. Going
to the Niagara. Over the Niagrarrrrrrrrrrrrr
Break. Cody had her on the floor.
Who was winning?
It was a close match.
The blonde went for a bottle. Cody clamped down on her head.
In a back room. A pool hall. With games to play. Sporting events to
witness. He bRought Them in. The police raided it.
Step up Mein Herrrn, and take a whiff of this. It comes from Maryland and
is very popular. You just have to get it. She put it on. Cody No. 5.
In a distinctive bottle. It comes from the Orient. A few drops is
enough. She was bathed in it. Cheap p erfume. They were places to go
where people could sing. Like Karioki. Passionately about what ailed
them. Spontaneous bursts of songs could be heard around the room. They
were like pop guns going off to celebrate the armistice. no. luc. wait.
I ha d to get my breath. He was too fast for me. I wondered if Tom was
doing this to girls out in the boonies. Just the thought made me
connected with them. I was overloading again. Something was coming from
inside me. I could feel it coming out like an alien. Ripping through my
chest. I wasn't the same wide-eyed girl you knew anymore. No. It was
something else. Something that was me. Coming up for air. Like a diving
bell. I was seeing something new. I collapsed over my keyboard.
Liar, I didn't. I never did. I'm still here. Go on now, go.
Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay down and die? I ripped
at his face. Knowing that when I did, there would be nothing there. Just
a face. Smiling that cockeyed smile. Th e lips pulled slightly up in a
slant. I knew who it was. I just wasn't going to say. They called him
the Prince of Second Avenue. That name probably fits a lot of guys. Old
guys. Who were here when I came. Irving's in Pennsylvania. I don't know
ab out George. Irving was a twin. His brother was very famous. He did
those Chagalls in the bedroom. Then there's the Porche. It shouldn't be
there. Someone will confiscate it. If you leave it parked long enough.
It's like babies. In New York. The police are always picking them up.
There was a big international scandal when they picked up the wrong one
last spring. We nearly had WW dot 3 on our hands. A very delicate
situation. They had to offer a lot of sacrifices over that one. They
ripped t he girl's heart out in Union Square. Very moving ceremony.
Eventually, the Danes were placated. You wouldn't think a little country
like that would be so touchy. But just look at its shape. What does it
look like? If you turn it upside down. The so ft underbelly of Europe,
if you know what I mean. Only the Americans have their maps upside down.
Whjat do you expect? They expected the baby at 900 hours. This weight is
intolerable. Madeleine Albright was on her knees to the Chinese
ambassador. Ju st give us ten more minutes. Please. In the end, justice
triumphed. London calling, sir.
London was always calling. This movie had to be made after the
war becvause it had an American jeep in it. In Europe, we do not talk
about the war. Everyone has forgotten it. Only the Americans keep
reminding us. Why they are here. I forget what? What did you say? They
always want to visit cemeteries. And have their pictures taken in front
of Notre Dame. Most of them do not even know which war they are talking
about. This is not Vietnam, Madame. These dead people are not your sons.
Mutinees de guerre. That's another French word I know. But which
deguerre? This is a deguerrotype A. He belongs in office. Then next is
a Type O. Put him in the top drawer. With the gun. She is an
apparachik. Monitor her closely. This girl belongs in the office next to
you. Treat her carefully. No bruises. It's got to look natural. They
blew up the tank. During the occupation. Eventually the Americans were
forced to leave. Kinshasa was not an optimum milieu if you know what I
mean. Everyone laugh ed. She was so relieved. They thought she was
funny, the way she butchered the accent. Until they realized their
children were imitating her. The resulting patois was unacceptable to the
Academe. Where she was asked to defend herself. Defending a do ctoral
thesis can be murder. Just ask me. Real sadism. If you've ever been
grilled by three self-appointed experts in the field, you will have some
idea what Joan went through to become a saint.
For one thing, they all hated each other's guts. So trying to
please all three was out of the question. I knew it was going to be
bloody, but I had no idea it would be like that. Real heart of darkness
stuff. The choppers took us off the embassy roof . I clung to the thing,
the sleeve, they put around you to haul you up. But I was slipping. The
helicopter swung away from the compound and I went straight into a
sandstone wall. Apache de Helicopter won the prize in the 1963 Saloon
show that rejected Sidney Manet. Ground fire tore through me. Then we
were out over the forest. At least the bird was. I was slamming into
some trees. It was too low. Big bamboo patch coming up. ak aka ak ak it
was like a machine gun. Each bamboo stalk had been hon ed to razor sharp.
They sliced me apart. The helicopter was still low. Hanging by my
wrists, I was next dragged through a lake. Then I hit a highway marker.
The metal sign clipped me in the crotch. Below was a backyard barbecue.
I could feel Africa clutching at me like an asteroid falling to earth,
impregnating new life to the jungle. As the gods from the sky had been
depicted in ancient tombs, fucking great Mother Africaaaaaaaaaaaas.
Outside, there was an explosion. It was very loud. Possibly
another suicide bomber on Avenue A. Somewhere on the other side of the
fans was the sound of a lone and distant trumpet.
---
"I do definitely mean what I say to be taken literally, yes, to
make people aware of the true criminality of our times, to wise up to the
marks." Burroughs, interview, 1970.
*
At the risk of stating the obvious, nothing in this chapter should
be construed as an encouragement to commit violence against the living,
the dead or members of Congress. -- C.A.M.
THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 11
"[He was] very ugly, ungracious, impolite, sick -- I forgive him.
They called him loco." -- Jeanne Calment, remembering Vincent van Gogh.
Borges wrote that a time eventually came when the eyes of the last
person to have seen the face of Christ closed forever. When Jeanne Louise
Calment died Monday at 122, she took with her the last living memory of
van Gogh's hands, hands that may have painted at least a few of the
marvelous paintings that today have his name on them. This, of course, is
assuming that it actually was van Gogh who came into her father's
apothecary in Arles when she was 12 or 13, and not some other unwashed
derelict who she later decided had been him for the benefit of a good
story. In any case, I am willing to go along with the old woman, if for
no other reason than she obviously had a wonderful sense of humor. Five
years ago, when some reporter said goodbye with the wo rds, "Until next
year, perhaps," she replied, "I don't see why not. You don't look so bad
to me." Besides, since the provenance of almost any van Gogh seems to be
that it is a fake, why should the authenticity of Madame Calment's memory
be held to a higher accountability?
It is odd to think, however, that a time will also come when the
last person to have seen Elvis will also die. Then he, too, will be
erased from memory. Of course, there will still be the movies and the
photographs, but a photo never shows a person as he or she is, and neither
does a video. A photo shows the way a piece of paper looks with some
black or colored inkstains on it arranged into an image that different
people agree or disagree looks like whoever was standing in front of the
camera when the picture was taken. Almost no one I know looks like a flat
piece of paper with smudges on it. The same is true of videos and
mirrors. What we see in a mirror is not ourselves. It is a collection of
light and shadow which again someone else has told us looks like us until
we identify with it. But the fact is the way we see from within ourselves
is just as much ourselves, probably more, as what we see in the mirror. Of
course, our eyes tell us nothing either. They aren't meant to. Eyes are
for the s torage of memories, not vision. Once, when I went to visit
Gran, I hadn't even dropped my backpack before she had me looking at
snapshots from her latest colonoscopy. Possibly she had said hello first.
I can't remember. The pictures were in color and looked like the Lincoln
Tunnel without cars. There were shadings of pinks and whites with a black
circle in the distance where the her innertube extended to her upper
reaches. All that was needed was an inscription: "Souvenir of the
Beautiful Caverns of LaRae." Looking at them, however, I reflected that
these pictures were as much of Gran as if they had shown her face. But
they were not her. The same may be said of Elvis.
I never saw Elvis. He was dead before I was born. This summer it
will be 20 years. So all I know about him is what I learned at my
father's knee, knowledge clouded by the fact that neither he nor anyone
else in the family had seen Elvis either, by whi ch I mean, up close and
personal. The closest anybody got was my father had been some place once,
I forget where, and a motorcade went by and someone said Elvis was in the
limo. But all he saw was the car.
Gran had seen Hitler. And not just to wave to, either. She
practically lived at Berschtesgartin. Once he offered her a cigarette.
She said his hand shook slightly as he extended the gold cigarette case.
Perhaps from intense emotion. Gran can be eva sive about this part of her
story, so exactly how intight she actually was with der Fuehrer will
probably always be a matter of speculation. Hitler is about the most
famous person anyone in our family ever saw, unless you count all the
times my dad met N ixon when he was a young Republican, Dad, not Nixon.
She saw them all: Goring, Himmler. The whole crew. Jodl. She has a bug
about Jodl. For the benefit of those with an American education, Jodl was
not the little guy with the big ears in Star Wars. He was a German
general. Very high up. I think he was tried as a war criminal and hung.
Sometimes I almost suspect they had something going on. I wouldn't even
be surprised if Jodl was my father's real father. It's possible. Which
would make me the granddaughter of a war criminal, wouldn't it? God,
Smalhausen would have been livid with envy. I don't know too much about
my real grandfather, that is, the man she married. They had a house on
Long Island. Other than that, he's simply a shadow, as is her first
husband, the one who got killed in the war. They had a daughter, but Gran
doesn't know what happened to her. By now, I guess she'd be in her early
sixties.
To be truthful, I don't know that much about Jodl, either. You
can't really tell from the way Gran talks. It might not even have been
the same Jodl. It could have been someone else with the same name, that
Gran got confused in her mind. A stand-in, s o to speak. It might have
been the mailman. You know the way women can be about uniforms. She may
have just got the general and the mailman mixed up. After all, she lost
everything in the war. Her husband. Daughter. Jodl. I don't think it
bothered her that much. She hardly ever talks about her husbands. They
seem interchangeable. Even though they were on different sides during the
war. The Long Island husband seems indistinquishable from the one in
Dusseldorf. Except for the fact that they we re sequential, they might
have been split from the same photon. Like Smalhausen's prick. Right
down the center. A little on the bias. But virtually the same. If you
split a photon, and each photon twin goes off in a different direction,
does that mea n there could be photons made out half photons wandering
around out there in the cosmos? So essentially, these two soldiers could
be coming at each other from different directions, and one offed the
other, and took his wife. Naturally, that didn't happe n, but
statistically, it was possible, nicht wahr? So if theoretically half
photons can combine to form whole photons, the reality is that it could be
happening all the time.
My grandfather had studied mathematics at Heidelberg before the
war. But which grandfather?
He was also a Jew.
I could see Smalhausen look at me sort of funny when he found out
I was Jewish. Like, you could see the word "verbotten" light up on his
forehead. God. He had so many hangups. He had been born in America.
His father was a carpet salesman. Willie Lo man. A drummer. Going from
town to town. Selling rugs. But when I told him I was Jodl's
granddaughter, he nearly shit. He had never known anyone who carried
collective guilt before. When I said, don't be silly. I didn't have
anything to do with it, he said I was in denial. What an asshole.
I mean, come on. He's the one who runs around the trailer park as
a lesbian Nazi prison guard. Who did he think he was blaming?> Besides,
it's not like I was one of the big guys. Goring, for instance. Or
Ribbentrop. Or Hess. Now Hess. That might be fun. To be Hess's
granddaughter. And be whacky as he was. No. I was just an ordinary
general, doing my duty, and taking the blame for it. I'm not sure what
Jodl did to get himself hung. Maybe it was just because he was so good.
If he had been in charge instead of that horse's ass, Rommel... He must
have thought at the end. Today he would be leading the parade of heroes
through Trafalgar Square with Churchill's head on a pike. Funny how
things work out. Tears filled his eyes. How unfair. Fo r this to
happen. To me? What'd I do? I was too kind. That was it. To get
booted upstairs to the high command just as the bottom fell out. Those
fuckers.
They could see this coming. They got out. He was left holding
the sticky end of the revolver when they walked in and caught him. I
didn't do it. Sure. They took him downtown. Why are you arresting me?
I'm innocent. I tell you. I didn't have anything to do with it.
Field Marshall Jodl. This must be worth a sprig and a couple of
grape leaves on the old sun visor. He was fighting World War II all over
again. On the beaches. Let's just say it's somewhere between Lauderdale
and Jupiter Inlet. Yeah. And let it go at that. This is not a good
place to come ashore, especially if you're Americans. Frau Helga is
defending the beaches. Like you wouldn't believe. Just be careful if you
go for a moonlight swim. Don't step on a mine. He's got a whole row of
concrete pillboxes lined up down there.
*
Over the weekend, I turned on the tv, C-Span, one night, and there
was what looked like a church service going on. People were standing in a
circle in groups that looked like choirs, and they were singing hymns. A
couple groups of children stood out in white sweatshirts. The place
looked like a temple or church. Just as I was about to push the clicker,
a sign came on and it said this was the enrollment ceremony of the budget
bill. I am not making this up. Enrollment is what Congress does with a
bill they've finally agreed on before they send it to the President.
I thought, what the fuck? What are they? Weirdos? Then the
singing stopped and men started coming out of a back room. Men in suits.
Among which I recognized the pumpkin head of our ethically excentric
speaker. More signs identified each suit. The one in the lead was Trent
Lott, cousin Newt's opposite number in the upper house. As each man
emerged, it was like the second coming. Like Elvis had walked in and said
"Hey, I'm back." No. Like Michael Jackson had walked in and said, "Dad!"
Well, you get the point. Madonna like applause burst out for each of
these applicators of the public trust. The first being, Tott, crossed
sideways across a row of kids standing on the stage like Mouseketeers
without their ears, but white shirts that said GOP Ta x Reform or
something self-congradulatory like that. You could tell the kids were
wetting their pants just to be there. And when Tott started to talk and
say how this budget bill was for them, there was one little angel right in
back of him who I though t was going to die of mass ecstacy. She was as
voluptuously pretty as only an innocent twelve year old could be, and she
looked like she was about to beg him to take her on the floor right then.
And I thought, Cookie you would be safer in a room filled with Jaws and
Ted Bundy right now. I just wanted to take her and bash her smiley face
into one of those stone columns and yell, "Wake up! These assholes are
ripping off your future. These are the real criminals."
But then I thought, no. Wait up, Cody. What that girl is is a
pre-Buddha. You know the story of the Buddha, don't you? Prince Guttama
is raised in luxury, away from the outside world, the world of ghettos and
violence, sex and rock and roll, drugs an d speed and sex and wild cars,
and low necklines and high heels. The various distractions from a world
of ease and relatively high security. At least ten feet high and wired.
Anyone trying to get in will be fried. But the same can be said for
anyone w ho tries to leave. She had been at the Japanese embassy when it
was taken. Suddenly, the scales fell from her eyes. How could she be so
mistaken? The world was an ugly place. Politicians lied. They had used
her. Right there on national television. The desire for revenge replaced
purity. She was no longer a Republican. She was a terrorist. Head of
Cell Block No. 2. Give it a couple years, Trent, I said. She'll be
coming for you with an unbanned handgun. It all fits. They can do Air
Force 2. Or should that be Newtie? Newtie as Harrison Ford. Shooting it
out with the reds. Incoming. Taking the hit. Air Force 3 and a Half.
Buddhas to the right of me, Buddhas to the left. Into the Buddha of Death
rode the six hundred.
I thought, lighten up. Why am I so judgmental? A religious
ceremony for a budget bill? Anthems and halleluyahs. Why not? With all
these farmers standing around. All you need is a hay field. The corn is
as high as an elephant's eye which is as high as his hole at the other
end, too, and it looks like it's getting a mightly load of fertilizer.
Eventually, I couldn't help it, I turned it off.
I have to have faith in the future. That they can't all be as
stupid as they look. Those kids. It was like looking at an army of
Roswellitos. They had come from the sky on a mission to be dumb. Stupid.
Programmed. But were they? How many smoked? Would smoke? How many shot
up? Keep going, kid. How many of these girls were pregnant? I
recognized a few from Salley Jessie. Then I saw the kid who liked to
sleep with his mom. I had met him on, where was it? Jenny? Jerry. Then
I began to see a ll these moms and other women on the other side of the
room. Where the choir was. And I realized, oh my God. Trailer trash.
They recruited trailer trash to come in and do this. Trailer Trash is the
name of the agency I work for. Who puts me on these shows. I get ten
dollars and they get a hundred. Is that right? I ask you. In fact, the
girl who was behind Trent, she already has two kids. One's at my
daughter's day care center. That's where we met. You should see her
tattoos.
I recognized several of the men, too, as my father who had abused
me. Get a lot of call for those. I've had three deadbeat dads on Geraldo
alone. I wondered if they were getting scale.
*
One of my correspondents, George, chided me for not taking more
time to develop my themes. I realized that was true. When I write a
chapter, I often suddenly see a whole plot, and I write it in, thinking
about going back and working it later on. For i nstance, the other day, I
had the idea of a title writer. Someone who only wrote titles. Gone With
the Wind. The Flat Earth Doctor. Things like that. That was all he
could write. No sentences. Nothing. Literature and movies were alien to
him. He could only name them. Marco Polo. Wendy Whopper's Biggest Hits.
Suddenly I see in there and all the possibilities, and then I withdraw,
it's that simple. His strategy was to relax. Like Jimmy Stewart. We're
winning, you know. He held her up against him. Sigmund Was Right. The
difference between a title and a sentence was that the words were all
capitalized. Redeemed. Another possibility. Don't Make Me Use This. A
Matter of Speech. These qualified as titles. But not sentences. A
sentence had to have a verb and a noun. How noun broun again Let's figure
it out by putting it through here. No. Don't. I'll tell you.
A paper shredder. A dress. Caught in the machinery. She screamed as it
swept her off the catwalk
her limp body fell toward the molten lava
When a hand reached out and grabbed her. Frau Helga was down around the
shoreline with the ackytyac. Where the action was. Incoming. She's G.I.
Joe. Defending the homeland. Germany. Ya wohl. mein heiserin inde
cameralonalnalalalallalaa
cannonade to the left of him
artillery to the right
Into a molten stream of fire
rode the six hundred
Jan Luc also fulfilled his mission.
he was French by intuition'
and not deceit. Maybe I just don't have anything to say anymore.
BBino biullll tell us
That was Burrough's enrollment ceremony as a choir of angenels from the
homeland lifted him up to execution
The apotheosis of Burroughs when America finally discovers what is hanging
on the end of the fork.
Trent stepped out onto the platform and tears was just streaming down his
eyes. He was masterful. He calmed the turbulent waters and protected the
president. Take him out. Don't be silly. You're speaking against the
Senate Majority leader. Waste him . God, this was a tough neighborhood.
He's a man. Cody's man.
She invested him. The Acension of Burroughs was a touching sight. Then
what happened? I don't know. I turned it off.
-silence of up to ten seconds in the newsroom--
You what?
Turned off the tv. I couldn't take anymore. I was stoned. So you
don't know what happened? Why should I? I'm a fashion editor. Versace
was shot. I'm telling you, my world fell apart right there. Gianni? I
was back to square one.
What's the matter?
I let go.
What? for a moment, I thought you said something. What was it? I did
it. I killed... I changed the name to Guzman. I saw it was Guzman
standing there, reading the manifesto, about our martyred brothers dying
in escrow. /did that ring a bell? I wondered. All leaders were the same
leader. Trent was Guzman. He was still going. Followi ng the shining
path. Then Guzman got up to speak and said the future of his children
were in our hands, would we like to pay? And he held a knife against one
of Newt's chins. Change that to Canute. The Wanderer. Everyone will
know who you're talking about. Trent becomes Guzman. Canute becomes a
folk hero. An evil spirit to scare babies with at night. A wraith that
feeds on small children. Something no one believes in but all fear. It
should be noted, however, that all creatures mentioned herein are of a
fictious nature and only part of a young girl's fantasy life. Are you
saying I was imagining this? Yes. That's exactly what I've been telling
you. You got to knock up against different taboos, see what happens.
Then you write your doctorate . I'll title it. Gone With The Wind. Or
how about Hells a'Poppin. With who and who. Incredible Slapstick. Lum
and Abner. No. Martin and Lewis. No. Ferrante and Tischer. Come on.
God. It's right there. Like flashes of lightning across my brai n.
Olson and Johnson. Right! I remembered. I can remember everything.
Like when you put your finger up my you know what when I was six weeks
old. Boy, aren't you glad you don't have kids. They can remember the
weirdest things. And then keep them a way from the child abuse set. It's
like matches and kerosene. Billy, come in here. I told you not to play
with him. Didn't I? Yes ma. She slapped his face. One day he would get
back at her. Just you weight? baby. Of course, he killed her. What d id
you expect? That he was acting? In her housedress. Frau Helga went to
the promised land. All those jews waiting for her. War criminal. Camp
Guard. You had to make a living. Gran still took some customers. Old
friends. Special. As a favor. S he was cutting down. Scratching names
out of her book. So many died. Especially when she was working on them.
She made a good living as a masseuse. Boy you could hardly walk when you
walked out of there. You fell right down the steps. What's matter with
you. Get up and move around. Want to dance. Honey? Oh God, to have
Smalhausen in love with me. George. That's his name. Wanting to lift up
my belly and fuck me. She let out a laugh that was like a cannon. I
thought the windows would fall ou t. Grab someone. First rule in a
storm. Grab someone. A hurricane. Or a tornado. That was another idea
I had. A guy who follows the tornados around in a pickup truck. It's
some kind of sport. Riding tornados. Sort of like polo. Cal follows
them in his old Chevy. Pickup. He's got some kind of satellite link that
shows him where the best rides are. Want to try?
Now that could be developed. Harrison Ford in the pickup.
Squinty eyes. From following the horizon. Looking for a gusher. A big
drill. A main rig. There's one, Partner. Partner's his dog. Gopher's
his truck. He turns off the road and rides towa rds it. Straight into
the heart of darkness. Can you visualize the graphics, and he comes up
with something as if by magic and the girl dies. What'd I say? Olson and
Johnson. Oh I love those guys. They were such pros. If you can see
through the act ing to the acting, you'll know what I mean. Air Force One
is caught in a tornado. Like that one over Texas, that bored a hole in
the earth twenty miles wide. Bigger. 200 feet. Easy. I'm telling you,
let it alone. He was talking to the dog. That's what he grabbed. Then
he grabbed me. And we went sailing away like Pecos Bill and Jimmidy Jane.
Hold tight Cricket.
Before the ball was over, they'd been carried all the way north to
Kansas. There it dropped them. They crawled out. Cody said, "This looks
like Kansas."
You mean we're back? Back from Oz. I want to go back. Oh dem
Ruby Slippers. I was wearing high heels. Fucking yellow brick road
wrecked my back. But the field of poppies was worse. It was my feet kept
singing into the soft clay. I want to go back . This is Hell, Lion. Oh
yeah? Is that what it is? Elvis in Hell. Think of that. Where's he
going?> Not to heaven, that's for damned sure. So where else is there to
go? Of course. Elvis is in Hell. You have to pay to get in. What do
you want? The usual price is your soul. She sold her soul to be with
Elvis. Now she would always remember him. Know what he looked like.
Exactly. From within. Where it mattered. Elvis was channeling Cody.
She would be his guide in the underworld. Cody, th e Souless. Trailing
along after the King of Rock n' Roll. Elvis on the other hand had not
sold his soul. It was the draw. Everyone came to be with Elvis's soul,
to keep it company, to help him. To lift him up into the kingdom of
heaven while we peris hed. Rock n' Roll is the Devil's Workshop.
Everyone knows that. You can't be different. She was. She was different
in every way. She was not one of them. She wasn't. Suddenly there was a
bolt of lightning and a crack of thunder at the same time.
She suddenly had the feeling she was no longer alone.
Are you serious? You'd really sell your soul to be with that creep? Are
you nuts?
Who are you?
I'm the devil.
Well, I'm sort of an acting devil. I'm not the ceo if you know what I
mean. I'm just his emmisary. Actually, I'm just doing a little side work
to get by. You really want to sell your soul? I can get you fifty bucks
on the black market. She said she wanted Elvis. He looked at her as if
he thought she'd gone mad. Forget it. Then no deal. I can get you an
autographed photograph in his own writing. That's as far as it goes. I
want to have his baby. He already has one. All right. let me have one
hour alone with him. Is that too much to ask. Yes. Be satisfied with
five minutes. He's not the pope, you know?
So I gave him my jewelbox. It was on a zip disk. I went in and
sat down in a waiting room. There were several others ahead of me. I
crossed my legs. I touched myself. I was in the anteroom of Elvis. I
could barely contain myself. I wondered if th e other girls felt the same
way. Most looked pretty cool. I wasn't sure about the one with the
beret, though. The one with twenty pounds of nitro strapped around her
body. She looked nervous. Eventually, I was called. I went in. I had
to walk up th is long windy hallway and then turn and go through a door
with flaps on it. I followed the others. Inside was a conveyor belt. A
man with a rod stood over it. He bent down and touched my head. Then I
saw Elvis.
Boy, was that wild stuff. Suddenly, I was back on the street.
What is this? Where am I? Dayton. Illinois. Winslow Arizona. How'd I
get here? In a pickup truck. Riding tornados is fun. Better than bungee
balloooon jumping. Hard comedown though. Just sets you. Not like a
hurricane, blows you out in the swamp. You come down in twenty feet of
mud. And gators. Gators to the right of you, Cougars to the right.
There's going to be a payload in the pickup tonight.
Cody asked him why he did all this. To keep busy. Keep in touch.
Don't touch. Don't play. Just sit. He sat. In the parlor while the two
old ladies drank tea. He was bored. He wished she'd go. He wanted to
play. Not like that, Smal. You'll hurt somebody. Now sit still. I'm
not going to hurt you. She sat in his lap. He touched her. So that's
what he remembered, wondering if she did. There is no statute of
limitations on something like this. Once done, twice guilty. Now swing.
She swang out from the wall, shaking blood out of her eyes. They were
still shooting. I got to get up. They came in lower and dragged her on
the dirt road. Down Kinshasa's Avenue of the Heroes. A conquerored
madchen. Rub it in, Shatzi. A British spy. They c aptured her. So, you
are working for the Allies. Commander Cody. We have been watching you,
UberFlioghtMadchen Michaels. Now Michael's kid was going to pay. Her
collective debt. What was owed. Swiss bank accounts. Spend it before
they get it. Your bill, Countess. She examined the check.
Several items should not be here. The pony in the sauna, for
instance. My company pays for that on their account. The golf course,
too. That is not my expense. Also, we did not have important French
chablis. That was beer. And it goes on the Mille r account.
She was stalling for time. They both knew that. T-Time. D-Day.
Rolls. Thank you. No. You may have one. He took it. Biding for time.
Binding it. Getting out of the shower. Lying on the bed. Hoping he
won't notice it. That I got him by the cu rls. Everyone would know now,
wouldn't they? That I slept with the fuehrer, but it wasn't. It was his
stand-in. Jodl? Yes. It was his night off. And Jodl's on duty. They
took turns. Up and down the command. I drew Jodl. Exactly as I had seen
hi m. That night. Dressed up as Hitler. It was so bizarre. You should
have seen him. Trying to impress me. I knew right away it wasn't him. I
didn't know it was Jodl at the time. This is how we met. Him doing
Hitler routines and I would be his moll. So we teamed up. It wasn't such
a bad match. Two photons make a whole, even though they aren't from the
same batch. Light meeting light across a small distance. Two people who
don't know what the other half is doing. And colliding head on in Trafal
gar Circus Olson and Johnson, I tell you, what pros. Mom and Dad.
Working the circuit. Of Elks clubs and other places. Around Long Island
and up and down the coast. We was a pair. Lum and Abner. Burns and
Allen. We were better than those. We were outrageous. It was a swell
life. Until I broke my hip. And he left me. Ran off with a tightrope
walker. In a silver dress. A tightrope walker's silver dress. Heard
they had a kid. What happened to it? She told me everything. She
juggled knives. Not big ones. With big handles. She juggled little
bitty ones. Like stars. And then she nailed you to a tree. Never heard.
She went after the girl in the silver dress. Sliced her. She was faster
than Tigris. Watch. I'll show you. Gran, not wi th the silverware. She
has no control anymore. She can cut you real bad. And not even be
anywhere near you. Action at a distance, as it were. The way she
manipulates the cutlery. Even around corners. You can be in the bedroom,
and all of a sudden, whish. That's Gran reliving the old days. In the
circus. You don't mess with Frieda Michaelson. Later, she anglocized it.
Whip. Whip. Whip. Take cover. Stay down. Eventually, you learn to
defend yourself. Either that or die. Cody whipped round , guns blazing.
I told you to stop. Gran cowered on the floor. No shoot. no shoot.
Americanski. She was in the Russian zone. They caught her. Ten years on
the Gulag. War criminal. Pass over that. Don't remember too much about
that time we were building our house. On long island. And the other half
was starving in the tundra. Toughski luckski Brunhilda. In life, we
sometimes make raw deals. You've got the sticky end of the stick. Pig.
She rooted for her living. Truffles. She was a Truff le Pig. You know
what that is, don't you Commander? She stared at him. We put a collar
around the pig's neck and it roots for the truffle. And when it finds it,
we kick it in the belly and take the truffle away from it. Got that?
Work on the visuals . Only here, we have no pigs. Fraulein Freida. We
have only you. Get busy.
Of course, there was a link. You know, where one does, the other
does, too. Even though you aren't out in the Siberian Rainforest. You
are digging around in your garden with your nose and your bare behind in
the air. What happened to your significant other, Cody asked. Gran
shruggled. She's still out there. We move as a binary. Over a long
space. That nothing in Quantum Physics can explain. Is that why you are
swinging the ax? Because your other self is chopping wood? God, the old
lady was fa st. I just had time to get under the bed before the tornado
hit.
The medicine she takes for her eyes drives her crazy. It's like putting
acid into them. Then she can see Cody and she goes for her. Wham wham
wham the readings are off. She could be blind. She turned out of the
driveway and the van hit her. The doub le bounced around the forest,
making strange noises. Like a bird. It was a mating ritual. Suddenly,
she heard a loud screeching sound. Jodl had bedded her. It was over in
an instant. Then he flew away. And left her to raise the kid. Michael
grew u p strong and handsome, as did Tom, her son by Seigfried. But
Jodl's boy was best. She really loved him. I wondered what it must be
like to be Gran and to love someone. It sort of made me edgy. Maybe she
did. Then it slipped past me. Books could now be free. One no longer
needed publishers. One could download anything from the net. Just take a
bundle of stuff, print it out and you had a book. It didn't have to
match. You could be your own publisher. Everything had an inner
relationship, even t hough each was completely independent. You cannot
have a hearing. And that was that. Each mind would find its way into the
material and make sense of it. Even the budget bill had meaning. Then
they began to interpret it. Lots of luck. Here it is. Have fun. It's
off my desk. What? You mean it's not working. Why not? I said it could
and it will. Stand thou still, see. She shifted her weight. He stuck
her. Stand still. She was a fit maiden. A girl who has clothes pinned
on her. To see how they looked. Everyone used her. Because she had a
perfect figure. Versache loved her. Todd Oldham. Tommy Hilfiger. There
was a big fight over who would get her next. Darling, I'll go out of
business if I don't have your body soon. I need to do so me work. I need
preamps. And a guitar. Booster her up. 650 pounds. Of Elvis. She's
got to let it go. Tell her that. Tell her her double is losing weight.
She will, too. The double was anorexic. A starvling. With big tits.
She dragged them up the ramp to the slaughterhouse. Soon she would be
free.
*
* The information about Jeanne Calment is from an obituary in the
NY Times, 8/5/97. The same edition carries an article in the Science
section about a woman with autism who designs slaughterhouses. She said
she sees things the way cows do, which is wha t make her creations so
successful. Funny world, nicht wahr?
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