Flying to America

by Donald Barthelme

  shoots Pierre pieces of literature genuine love stumps cantering toward the fine morning half-zip theme of his own choosing ramp shotgun illuminations informal arrangements botulism theories of design raving first sketches thought to be unsatisfactory geological accidents and return ant bulb lacing shoe brave though circumcised crawled all over the dingbat howling inadequate paper hard squeeze long series of closeups authors of the period wet leg breakfast dip snacks and banquets believing he was a child greatness of Finnish achievement 10/150 simple news elaborated sorrow gentle roll of ships Tillie gasped laughing and swayed and August was terrible consented to smear the doors and houses of Milan with a pestiferous salve daughter green ladies looking out of the picture plane forced feeding then responsible technicians hanging garbage unreasonable ideas more to do our views remain substantially the same today

  then I went to a wedding and when it was my turn to kick the bride kicked her with commercial photographers snails keep our garden private Bittermarka now sitting in the airplane hearing a lot of tape trouser and skirt racks undone Europeans don’t bother dried Bibb exchange of interests primary moves accompanied by a lion raw November in the black series extra simultaneous decisions big drum bleeding of the nose royal and ancient good-humored areas Elephanta how large the statues and ruins are! married the barber Lamb of God gouty subjects forgot their pains red and blue paper ice Bernard with a hive of bees virile the train scraped some people onto the tracks intact sections of streets bozzetti shaped his work livingrooms of subsequent civilizations specific borrowings leer snug cover bucks and does having held high federal office split raising and lowering of her skirt like an elevator hairy children made a ballad on the incident

  yellow faces let’s slip over to the foot of that tree to avoid getting crushed future of English drama water bomb checkered lilies expensive thrill magazine whispered results a pleasant walk on this surface blowhole boxes of green ladies blackguardism presses handkerchief to mouth I found your name in a book commercial undertakings news and weather bruised or cut document party zone explosions below the line they had a hard time in Italy convinced that he had seen something remarkable modelled its radiator on the Parthenon cringes diddled statistics bloc voting if there were no such affinity between atoms it would be impossible for love to appear “higher up” hobbies sitting on some lumber protest against what they thought wrong sick whips of the baby on his left shoulder half-forgotten events far-fetched positions drift of error cloth cap or biretta figuratively speaking trembling we never forget anything

  weeping map intense activity din it would be better if we just piled all the stones on the floor crumpled paper wheels out of alignment prints rescued from the inferno beggars writing my article streaked with raisins kept putting things into his mouth foxing pages divided hearts something stuck in the gum a humanizing influence ichor didn’t they tell you list of objects which have their own saucy life remedy sighted bats reflection of light from garbage cans spirit of the army wispy and diffuse King Lud giving the dog a bad name various itches I thought of firing in the air invisible armatures for piles of felt record of irregularities in a white trench coat aesthetic experience bleeding nails Moscow rehearsals torn and then pasted together in long strips but these have never been very successful black ball Clichy junks crowded with long purplish tubers yanked up from the ground in my black suit, my colored tie

  halfway houses navel jelly four Italian architects said shrewd things about her mother lines drawn around the page many-colored oysters flush cameramen senses a desire for change large sheets of flat glass great disputations that he had lately held against all comers gunboat enterprise fatal laxity elegant sawhorses red snout mothering blur from the Sorbonne state ceremonies quaking hare but a glance at the bathtub discouraged her free cookbooks ancient deposits the humiliation of the wedding tiny hero so boring that he couldn’t finish it and I am with you! three or more immense sponges by the petrol pump pink chiffon spikes interpenetrating diamonds enormous weather-like forces no relief smear tangle of solutions without problems enemies of vision discussions of the good life (mostly blacks and Puerto Ricans) somber triumph presents a picture of fingertip sensuality borrowed money no aperture had been provided

  free offer last gesture smooth man of position purely cinematic vice slap and tickle zippered wallpaper two beautiful heavy books, boxed hears noise goes to window 220 treasures from 11 centuries fixer great and stupefying Ring minimum of three if it hadn’t been for Y. I would never have gotten my lump local white Democrats gospel seven camera tilts to the balconies filled with joyous people young maidens tape after his brain is formed keep your checks in a safe place modern research sank to her knees on 35 mm color slides thermal machines from a chemical company in Pittsburgh handsome pelt illuminates the entire fluxus at one stroke body shirt spends all his time at the console wrong discard with the most careful and well-considered utilization of all my powers doll houses fastened to the wall photo face blade the world enigmatized skat will pull away the carpet age big tiger these conditions reverse themselves

  childish memories of climbing up parents or nurses hollow objects sexual activity doleful cries critical moments abstract wit barges logical facades limping brides young dramatists acquainted with the sleeper plastic light first German edition speech blunder knobkerry imagined that the body was walking through fire during the cotton crisis complained of being misunderstood by the other banged belly duties toward women military service punishment for economic reasons rut prepared regularly two bottles, a blue one and a white one the doctor and his instrument bulbous summit representatives shouting theory golden calf special precautions and I cannot resist citing zeal in the cause against abuses wherever he found them classic critic masculine hysteria attacked by Goethe unsalted caviar member of my household anal opening which is the duke? which is the horse? which? we sat down and wept

  poet’s slurs extra rations business on 96th Street blueprints of uncompleted projects drunk and naked too malphony down at the old boathouse dark little birds astonishing propositions drummed out of the circle I’ll insult him Scotch student rags and bones sunspots spoiled the hash keen satisfaction honors and gifts fit to burst the blue the white hoarse glee caught her knee in her hands with a click tonic night favorite wine well-known bumbler look at his head the bomb is here gulls twins rinse the seven of them appealing tot of rum she rises looks at him mysteriously fades into the closet fades out of the closet again double meaning arms tighten weak with relief silence throwing down the letters her wedding hat lackey slakes thirst nervously puts mask to face back door of the morgue new raincoat and draws away laughing bit of dogfish seated on a green stone bench baked this meat loaf

  bad language mutilated Miss Rice I was sorry black coat with longish skirtlike Maxwell’s initiative failed the narrator’s position is clear province of religion falling wine barrels tapped or bugged clattering intensely human document wedding in the long border that stretched from the Horse Guards’ barracks to women in slacks addressed envelopes I wanted to tell you something pages perforated for easy song removal challengingly real issues in gerontology there is but one moment in which the beautiful human being is beautiful cut flowers in rows and rows women reformers watching from balconies gentle way with materials awarded a medal office visit monkey’s parade my ignorance which I do not wish to disguise blue pants she turns, smiling bitterly in her tin beard aren’t you being overly emotional about it? discovering reasons hungry actors scars upon the trunk or face of the sculpture the decisions of 1848

  love tap the glass is one and three-sixteenth inches thick laminated with plastic top stop a bullet from almost any sidearm indifferent office cleaners smudge views of the acrobat ordered the girl to get up and dress herself dream of the dandy leaves and their veins modern soft skin a car drives up a policeman jumps out tinkling sackcloth provocative back controlled nausea whimpering forms pardonable in that they trump irresistible to any faithful mind hybrid tissue zut powerful story of a half-na
ked girl caught between two emotions two wavy sheets of steel food towers in Turin a collection of dirks who is that very sick man? age-old eating habits crowd celebrating the matter with him is that he is crazy Paul and Barnabas preaching a bunch of extras going by sketch and final version automatic pump salad holder taking the French shoe tired lines to be taken literally no sexual relations with them

  The Big Broadcast of 1938

  Having acquired in exchange for an old house that had been theirs, his and hers, a radio or more properly radio station, Bloomsbury could now play “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which he had always admired immoderately, on account of its finality, as often as he liked. It meant, to him, that everything was finished. Therefore he played it daily, 60 times between 6 and 10 A.M., 120 times between 12 noon and 7 P.M., and the whole night long except when, as was sometimes the case, he was talking.

  Bloomsbury’s radio talks were of two kinds, called the first and the second kind. The first consisted of singling out, for special notice, from among all the others, some particular word in the English language, and repeating it in a monotonous voice for as much as fifteen minutes, or a quarter-hour. The word thus singled out might be any word, the word nevertheless for example. “Nevertheless,” Bloomsbury said into the microphone, “nevertheless, nevertheless, nevertheless, nevertheless, nevertheless, nevertheless, nevertheless.” After this exposure to the glare of public inspection the word would frequently discloses new properties, unsuspected qualities, although that was far from Bloomsbury’s intention. His intention, insofar as he may be said to have had one, was simply to put something “on the air.”

  The second kind of radio talk which Bloomsbury provided was the commercial announcement.

  The Bloomsbury announcements were perhaps not too similar to other announcements broadcast during this period by other broadcasters. They were dissimilar chiefly in that they were addressed not to the mass of men but of course to her, she with whom he had lived in the house that was gone (traded for the radio). Frequently he would begin somewhat in this vein:

  “Well, old girl” (he began), “here we are, me speaking into the tube, you lying on your back most likely, giving an ear, I don’t doubt. Swell of you to tune me in. I remember the time you went walking without your shoes, what an evening! You were wearing, I recall, your dove-gray silk, with a flower hat, and you picked your way down the boulevard as daintily as a real lady. There were chestnuts on the ground, I believe; you complained that they felt like rocks under your feet. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled in front of you, sweeping the chestnuts into the gutter with my hand. What an evening! You said I looked absurd, and a gentleman who was passing in the other direction, I remember he wore yellow spats with yellow shoes, smiled. The lady accompanying him reached out to me on my head, but he grasped her arm and prevented her, and the knees of my trousers tore on a broken place in the pavement.

  “Afterwards you treated me to a raspberry ice, calling for a saucer, which you placed daintily, at your feet. I still recall the coolness, after the hot work on the boulevard, and the way the raspberry stained my muzzle. I put my face in your hand, and your little glove came away pink and sticky, sticky and pink. We were comfortable there, in the ice cream parlor, we were pretty as a picture! Man and wife!

  “When we got home, that evening, the street lights were just coming on, the insects were just coming out. And you said that next time, if there were a next time, you would wear your shoes. Even if it killed you, you said. And I said I would always be there to sweep away the chestnuts, whatever happened, even if nothing happened. And you said most likely that was right. I always had been there, you said. Swell of you to notice that. I thought at the time that there was probably no one more swell than you in the whole world, anywhere. And I wanted to tell you, but did not.

  “And then, when it was dark, we had our evening quarrel. A very ordinary one, I believe. The subject, which had been announced by you at breakfast and posted on the notice board, was Smallness in the Human Male. You argued that it was willfulness on my part, whereas I argued that it was lack of proper nourishment during my young years. I lost, as was right of course, and you said I couldn’t have any supper. I had, you said, already gorged myself on raspberry ice. I had, you said, ruined a good glove with my ardor, and a decent pair of trousers too. And I said, but it was for the love of you! and you said, hush! or there’ll be no breakfast either. And I said, but love makes the world go! and you said, or lunch tomorrow either. And I said, but we were everything to each other once! And you said, or supper tomorrow night.

  “But perhaps, I said, a little toffee? Ruin your teeth then for all I care, you said, and put some pieces of toffee in my bed. And thus we went happily to sleep. Man and wife! Was there ever anything, old skin, like the old days?”

  Immediately following this commercial announcement, or an announcement much like this, Bloomsbury would play “The Star-Spangled banner” 80 or 100 times, for the finality of it.

  When he interrogated himself about the matter, about how it felt to operate a radio of his own, Bloomsbury told himself the absolute truth, that it felt fine. He broadcast during this period not only some of his favorite words, such as the words assimilate, alleviate, authenticate, ameliorate, and quantities of his favorite music (he was particularly fond of that part, toward the end, that went: da-da, da da da da da da da-a), but also a series of commercial announcements of great power and poignancy, and persuasiveness. Nevertheless he felt, although he managed to conceal it from himself for a space, somewhat futile. For there had been no response from her (she who figured, as both subject and object, in the commercial announcements, and had once, before it had been traded for the radio, lived in the house).

  A commercial announcement of the period of this feeling was:

  “On that remarkable day, that day unlike any other, that day, if you will pardon me, of days, on that old day from the old days when we were, as they say, young, we walked if you will forgive the extravagance hand in hand into a theater where there was a film playing. Do you remember? We sat in the upper balcony and smoke from below, where there were people smoking, rose and we, if you will excuse the digression, smelled of it. It smelled, and I or we thought it remarkable at the time, like the twentieth century. Which was after all our century, none other.

  “We were there you and I because we hadn’t rooms and there were no parks and we hadn’t automobiles and there were no beaches, for making love or anything else. Ergo, if you will condone the anachronism, we were forced into the balcony, to the topmost row, from which we had a tilty view of the silver screen. Or would have had had we not you and I been engaged in pawing and pushing, pushing and pawing. On my part at least, if not on yours.

  “The first thing I knew I was inside your shirt with my hand and I found there something very lovely and, as they say, desirable. It belonged to you. I did not know, then, what to do with it, therefore I simply (simply!) held it in my hand, it was, as the saying goes, soft and warm. If you can believe it. Meanwhile down below in the pit events were taking place, whether these were such as the people in the pit had paid for, I did not and do not know. Nor did or do, wherever you are, you. After a time I was in fact distracted, I still held it in my hand but I was looking elsewhere.

  “You then said into my ear, get on with it, can’t you?

  “I then said into your ear, I’m watching the picture.

  “At this speech of mine you were moved to withdraw it from my hand, I understood, it was a punishment. Having withdrawn it you began, for lack of anything better, to watch the picture also. We watched the picture together, and although this was a kind of intimacy, the other kind had been lost. Nevertheless it had been there once, I consoled myself with that. But I felt, I felt, I felt (I think) that you were, as they say, angry. And to that row of the balcony, we, you and I, never returned.”

  After this announcement was broadcast Bloomsbury himself felt called upon to weep a little, and did, but not “on the air.”


  He was in fact weeping quietly in the control room, where were kept the microphone, the console, the turntables, and the hotplate, with “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing bravely and a piece of buttered toast in his hand, when he saw in the glass that connected the control room with the other room, which had been a reception room or foyer, a girl or woman of indeterminate age dressed in a long bright red linen duster.

  The girl or woman removed her duster, underneath she was wearing black toreador pants, an orange sweater, and harlequin glasses. Bloomsbury immediately stepped out into the reception room or foyer in order to view her more closely, he regarded her, she regarded him, after a time there was conversation.

  “You’re looking at me!” she said.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Right. I certainly am.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s something I do,” he said. “It’s my you might say métier.”

  “Milieu,” she said.

  “Métier,” Bloomsbury said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t often get looked at as a matter of fact.”

  “Because you are not very good-looking,” Bloomsbury said.