‘I said that although hanging Colby was almost certainly against the law, we had a perfect moral right to do so because he was our friend, belonged to us in various important senses, and he had after all gone too far’
DONALD BARTHELME
Born 7 April 1931, Philadelphia, USA
Died 23 July 1989, Houston, USA
‘Chablis’ first appeared in The New Yorker. ‘Margins’ first appeared in Come Back, Dr. Caligari. ‘The Balloon’ and ‘Game’ first appeared in Unspeakable Practices, Unnatural Acts. ‘The Glass Mountain’ first appeared in City Life and ‘I Bought a Little City’ and ‘The School’ first appeared in Amateurs.
ALSO PUBLISHED BY PENGUIN BOOKS
Forty Stories • Sixty Stories
DONALD BARTHELME
Some of Us Had Been
Threatening Our Friend
Colby
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN CLASSICS
Published by the Penguin Group
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‘The Palace at 4 A.M.’, ‘Chablis’ and ‘Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby’ selected from Sixty Stories, published in Penguin Classics 2003
‘The Glass Mountain’, ‘I Bought a Little City’, ‘The School’, ‘Margins’, ‘Game’ and ‘The Balloon’ selected from Forty Stories, published in Penguin Classics 2005
This edition published in Penguin Classics 2011
The author’s estate is grateful to Little, Brown and Company for permission to reprint the story ‘Margins’ from Come Back, Dr. Caligari and to Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. for permission to reprint the stories ‘The Balloon’ and ‘Game’ from Unspeakable Practices, Unnatural Acts; ‘The Glass Mountain’ from City Life; and ‘I Bought a Little City’ and ‘The School’ from Amateurs.
Copyright © Donald Barthelme, 1981, 1982, 1987
All rights reserved
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-197116-2
Contents
Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby
The Glass Mountain
I Bought a Little City
The Palace at Four A.M.
Chablis
The School
Margins
Game
The Balloon
Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby
Some of us had been threatening our friend Colby for a long time, because of the way he had been behaving. And now he’d gone too far, so we decided to hang him. Colby argued that just because he had gone too far (he did not deny that he had gone too far) did not mean that he should be subjected to hanging. Going too far, he said, was something everybody did sometimes. We didn’t pay much attention to this argument. We asked him what sort of music he would like played at the hanging. He said he’d think about it but it would take him a while to decide. I pointed out that we’d have to know soon, because Howard, who is a conductor, would have to hire and rehearse the musicians and he couldn’t begin until he knew what the music was going to be. Colby said he’d always been fond of Ives’s Fourth Symphony. Howard said that this was a ‘delaying tactic’ and that everybody knew that the Ives was almost impossible to perform and would involve weeks of rehearsal, and that the size of the orchestra and chorus would put us way over the music budget. ‘Be reasonable,’ he said to Colby. Colby said he’d try to think of something a little less exacting.
Hugh was worried about the wording of the invitations. What if one of them fell into the hands of the authorities? Hanging Colby was doubtless against the law, and if the authorities learned in advance what the plan was they would very likely come in and try to mess everything up. I said that although hanging Colby was almost certainly against the law, we had a perfect moral right to do so because he was our friend, belonged to us in various important senses, and he had after all gone too far. We agreed that the invitations would be worded in such a way that the person invited could not know for sure what he was being invited to. We decided to refer to the event as ‘An Event Involving Mr Colby Williams.’ A handsome script was selected from a catalogue and we picked a cream-colored paper. Magnus said he’d see to having the invitations printed, and wondered whether we should serve drinks. Colby said he thought drinks would be nice but was worried about the expense. We told him kindly that the expense didn’t matter, that we were after all his dear friends and if a group of his dear friends couldn’t get together and do the thing with a little bit of éclat, why, what was the world coming to? Colby asked if he would be able to have drinks, too, before the event. We said, ‘Certainly.’
The next item of business was the gibbet. None of us knew too much about gibbet design, but Tomás, who is an architect, said he’d look it up in old books and draw the plans. The important thing, as far as he recollected, was that the trapdoor function perfectly. He said that just roughly, counting labor and materials, it shouldn’t run us more than four hundred dollars. ‘Good God!’ Howard said. He said what was Tomás figuring on, rosewood? No, just a good grade of pine, Tomás said. Victor asked if unpainted pine wouldn’t look kind of ‘raw,’ and Tomás replied that he thought it could be stained a dark walnut without too much trouble.
I said that although I thought the whole thing ought to be done really well and all, I also thought four hundred dollars for a gibbet, on top of the expense for the drinks, invitations, musicians, and everything, was a bit steep, and why didn’t we just use a tree – a nice-looking oak, or something? I pointed out that since it was going to be a June hanging the trees would be in glorious leaf and that not only would a tree add a kind of ‘natural’ feeling but it was also strictly traditional, especially in the West. Tomás, who had been sketching gibbets on the backs of envelopes, reminded us that an outdoor hanging always had to contend with the threat of rain. Victor said he liked the idea of doing it outdoors, possibly on the bank of a river, but noted that we would have to hold it some distance from the city, which presented the problem of getting the guests, musicians, etc., to the site and then back to town.
At this point everybody looked at Harry, who runs a car-and-truck-rental business. Harry said he thought he could round up enough limousines to take care of that end but that the drivers would have to be paid. The drivers, he pointed out, wouldn’t be friends of Colby’s and couldn’t be expected to donate their services, any mo
re than the bartender or the musicians. He said that he had about ten limousines, which he used mostly for funerals, and that he could probably obtain another dozen by calling around to friends of his in the trade. He said also that if we did it outside, in the open air, we’d better figure on a tent or awning of some kind to cover at least the principals and the orchestra, because if the hanging was being rained on he thought it would look kind of dismal. As between gibbet and tree, he said, he had no particular preferences and he really thought that the choice ought to be left up to Colby, since it was his hanging. Colby said that everybody went too far, sometimes, and weren’t we being a little Draconian? Howard said rather sharply that all that had already been discussed, and which did he want, gibbet or tree? Colby asked if he could have a firing squad. No, Howard said, he could not. Howard said a firing squad would just be an ego trip for Colby, the blindfold and last-cigarette bit, and that Colby was in enough hot water already without trying to ‘upstage’ everyone with unnecessary theatrics. Colby said he was sorry, he hadn’t meant it that way, he’d take the tree. Tomás crumpled up the gibbet sketches he’d been making, in disgust.
Then the question of the hangman came up. Pete said did we really need a hangman? Because if we used a tree, the noose could be adjusted to the appropriate level and Colby could just jump off something – a chair or stool or something. Besides, Pete said, he very much doubted if there were any free-lance hangmen wandering around the country, now that capital punishment has been done away with absolutely, temporarily, and that we’d probably have to fly one in from England or Spain or one of the South American countries, and even if we did that how could we know in advance that the man was a professional, a real hangman, and not just some money-hungry amateur who might bungle the job and shame us all, in front of everybody? We all agreed then that Colby should just jump off something and that a chair was not what he should jump off of, because that would look, we felt, extremely tacky – some old kitchen chair sitting out there under our beautiful tree. Tomás, who is quite modern in outlook and not afraid of innovation, proposed that Colby be standing on a large round rubber ball ten feet in diameter. This, he said, would afford a sufficient ‘drop’ and would also roll out of the way if Colby suddenly changed his mind after jumping off. He reminded us that by not using a regular hangman we were placing an awful lot of the responsibility for the success of the affair on Colby himself, and that although he was sure Colby would perform creditably and not disgrace his friends at the last minute, still, men have been known to get a little irresolute at times like that, and the ten-foot-round rubber ball, which could probably be fabricated rather cheaply, would insure a ‘bang-up’ production right down to the wire.
At the mention of ‘wire,’ Hank, who had been silent all this time, suddenly spoke up and said he wondered if it wouldn’t be better if we used wire instead of rope – more efficient and in the end kinder to Colby, he suggested. Colby began looking a little green, and I didn’t blame him, because there is something extremely distasteful in thinking about being hanged with wire instead of rope – it gives you a sort of a revulsion, when you think about it. I thought it was really quite unpleasant of Hank to be sitting there talking about wire, just when we had solved the problem of what Colby was going to jump off of so neatly, with Tomás’s idea about the rubber ball, so I hastily said that wire was out of the question, because it would injure the tree – cut into the branch it was tied to when Colby’s full weight hit it – and that in these days of increased respect for the environment, we didn’t want that, did we? Colby gave me a grateful look, and the meeting broke up.
Everything went off very smoothly on the day of the event (the music Colby finally picked was standard stuff, Elgar, and it was played very well by Howard and his boys). It didn’t rain, the event was well attended, and we didn’t run out of Scotch, or anything. The ten-foot rubber ball had been painted a deep green and blended in well with the bucolic setting. The two things I remember best about the whole episode are the grateful look Colby gave me when I said what I said about the wire, and the fact that nobody has ever gone too far again.
The Glass Mountain
I was trying to climb the glass mountain.
The glass mountain stands at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Eighth Avenue.
I had attained the lower slope.
People were looking up at me.
I was new in the neighborhood.
Nevertheless I had acquaintances.
I had strapped climbing irons to my feet and each hand grasped a sturdy plumber’s friend.
I was 200 feet up.
The wind was bitter.
My acquaintances had gathered at the bottom of the mountain to offer encouragement.
‘Shithead.’
‘Asshole.’
Everyone in the city knows about the glass mountain.
People who live here tell stories about it.
It is pointed out to visitors.
Touching the side of the mountain, one feels coolness.
Peering into the mountain, one sees sparkling blue-white depths.
The mountain towers over the part of Eighth Avenue like some splendid, immense office building.
The top of the mountain vanishes into the clouds, or on cloudless days, into the sun.
I unstuck the righthand plumber’s friend leaving the left-hand one in place.
Then I stretched out and reattached the righthand one a little higher up, after which I inched my legs into new positions.
The gain was minimal, not an arm’s length.
My acquaintances continued to comment.
‘Dumb motherfucker.’
I was new in the neighborhood.
In the streets were many people with disturbed eyes.
Look for yourself.
In the streets were hundreds of young people shooting up in doorways, behind parked cars.
Older people walked dogs.
The sidewalks were full of dogshit in brilliant colors: ocher, umber, Mars yellow, sienna, viridian, ivory black, rose madder.
And someone had been apprehended cutting down trees, a row of elms broken-backed among the VWs and Valiants.
Done with a power saw, beyond a doubt.
I was new in the neighborhood yet I had accumulated acquaintances.
My acquaintances passed a brown bottle from hand to hand.
‘Better than a kick in the crotch.’
‘Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.’
‘Better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish.’
‘Better than a thump on the back with a stone.’
‘Won’t he make a splash when he falls, now?’
‘I hope to be here to see it. Dip my handkerchief in the blood.’
‘Fart-faced fool.’
I unstuck the lefthand plumber’s friend leaving the righthand one in place.
And reached out.
To climb the glass mountain, one first requires a good reason.
No one has ever climbed the mountain on behalf of science, or in search of celebrity, or because the mountain was a challenge.
Those are not good reasons.
But good reasons exist.
At the top of the mountain there is a castle of pure gold, and in a room in the castle tower sits …
My acquaintances were shouting at me.
‘Ten bucks you bust your ass in the next four minutes!’
… a beautiful enchanted symbol.
I unstuck the righthand plumber’s friend leaving the lefthand one in place.
And reached out.
It was cold there at 206 feet and when I looked down I was not encouraged.
A heap of corpses both of horses and riders ringed the bottom of the mountain, many dying men groaning there.
‘A weakening of the libidinous interest in reality has recently come to a close.’ (Anton Ehrenzweig)
A few questions burned in my mind.
Does one climb a glass mountain, at co
nsiderable personal discomfort, simply to disenchant a symbol?
Do today’s stronger egos still need symbols?
I decided that the answer to these questions was ‘yes.’
Otherwise what was I doing there, 206 feet above the power-sawed elms, whose white meat I could see from my height?
The best way to fail to climb the mountain is to be a knight in full armor – one whose horse’s hoofs strike fiery sparks from the sides of the mountain.
The following-named knights had failed to climb the mountain and were groaning in the heap: Sir Giles Guilford, Sir Henry Lovell, Sir Albert Denny, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir Patrick Grifford, Sir Gisbourne Gower, Sir Thomas Grey, Sir Peter Coleville, Sir John Blunt, Sir Richard Vernon, Sir Walter Willoughby, Sir Stephen Spear, Sir Roger Faulconbridge, Sir Clarence Vaughan, Sir Hubert Ratcliffe, Sir James Tyrrel, Sir Walter Herbert, Sir Robert Brakenbury, Sir Lionel Beaufort, and many others.
My acquaintances moved among the fallen knights.
My acquaintances moved among the fallen knights, collecting rings, wallets, pocket watches, ladies’ favors.
‘Calm reigns in the country, thanks to the confident wisdom of everyone.’ (M. Pompidou)
The golden castle is guarded by a lean-headed eagle with blazing rubies for eyes.
I unstuck the lefthand plumber’s friend, wondering if –
My acquaintances were prising out the gold teeth of not-yet-dead knights.
In the streets were people concealing their calm behind a façade of vague dread.
‘The conventional symbol (such as the nightingale, often associated with melancholy), even though it is recognized only through agreement, is not a sign (like the traffic light) because, again, it presumably arouses deep feelings and is regarded as possessing properties beyond what the eye alone sees.’ (A Dictionary of Literary Terms)
A number of nightingales with traffic lights tied to their legs flew past me.
A knight in pale-pink armor appeared above me.
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