I could tell them the story of the (indeterminate number of) bears, twisting it a bit to fit my deeper designs, so that the fourth bear enters (from left) and says, “I don’t care who’s been sleeping in my bed just so long as it is not a sergeant of police,” and the fifth bear comes in (from right) and says, “Harpsichords wither and warp when their soundboards are exposed to the stress of bicycle transport,” and the sixth bear strides right down to the footlights, center stage (from a hole in the back of the theater, or a hole in the back of the anecdote), and says, “Dearly beloved upholders, enforcers, rush, rush away and enter six-year bicycle race that is even now awaiting the starter’s gun at the corner of Elsewhere and Not-Here,” and the seventh bear descends from the flies on a nylon rope and cries, “Mother! Come home!” and the eighth bear —
But bears are not the answer. Bears are for children. Why am I thinking about bears when I should be thinking about some horribly beautiful “way out” of this tense scene, which has reduced me to a rag, just contemplating it here in the other room with this glass of chicken livers flambé in my hand —
Wait.
I will reenter the first room, cheerfully, confidently, even gaily, and throw chicken livers flambé all over the predicament, the flaming chicken livers clinging like incindergel to Mother, policemen, bicycles, harpsichord, and my file of the National Review from its founding to the present time. That will “open up” the situation successfully. I will resolve these contradictions with flaming chicken parts and then sing the song of how I contrived the ruin of my anaconda.
Can We Talk
I went to the bank to get my money for the day. And they had painted it yellow. Under cover of night, I shrewdly supposed. With white plaster letters saying CREDIT DEPARTMENT. And a row of new vice-presidents. But I have resources of my own, I said. Sulphur deposits in Texas and a great humming factory off the coast of Kansas. Where we make little things.
Thinking what about artichokes for lunch? Pleased to be in this yellow bank at 11:30 in the morning. A black man cashing his check in a Vassar College sweatshirt. A blue policeman with a St. Christopher pinned to his gunbelt. Thinking I need a little leaf to rest my artichokes upon. The lady stretching my money to make sure none of hers stuck to it.
Fourteenth Street gay with Judy Bond Dresses Are On Strike. When I leaned out of your high window in my shorts, did you really think I had hurting to destruction in mind? I was imagining a loudspeaker-and-leaflet unit that would give me your undivided attention.
When I leaned out of your high window in my shorts, did you think why me?
Into his bank I thought I saw my friend Kenneth go. To get his money for the day. Loitering outside in my painted shoes. Considering my prospects. A question of buying new underwear or going to the laundromat. And when I put a nickel in the soap machine it barks.
When I leaned out of your high window in my shorts, were you nervous because you had just me? I said: Your eyes have not been surpassed.
The artichokes in their glass jar from the artichoke heart of the world, Castroville, Calif. I asked the man for a leaf. Just one, I said. We don’t sell them in ones, he said. Can we negotiate, I asked. Breathing his disgust he tucked a green leaf into my yellow vest with his brown hands.
When I asked why you didn’t marry Harry you said it was because he didn’t like you. Then I told you how I cheated the Thai lieutenant who was my best friend then.
Posing with my leaf against a plastic paper plate. Hoping cordially that my friend Victor’s making money in his building. Then the artichokes one by one. Yes, you said, this is the part they call Turtle Bay.
Coffee wondering what my end would be. Thinking of my friend Roger killed in the crash of a Link Trainer at Randolph Field in ’43. Or was it breakbone fever at Walter Reed.
Then out into the street again and uptown for my fencing lesson. Stopping on the way to give the underwear man a ten. Because he looked about to bark.
When I reached to touch your breast you said you had a cold. I believed you. I made more popcorn.
Thinking of my friend Max who looks like white bread. A brisk bout with my head in a wire cage. The Slash Waltz from “The Mark of Zorro.” And in the shower a ten for Max, because his were the best two out of three. He put it in his lacy shoe. With his watch and his application to the Colorado School of Mines.
In the shower I refrained from speaking of you to anyone.
The store where I buy news buttoned up tight. Because the owners are in the mountains. Where I would surely be had I not decided to make us miserable.
I said: I seem to have lost all my manuscripts, in which my theory is proved not once but again and again and again, and now when people who don’t believe a vertical monorail to Venus is possible shout at me, I have nothing to say. You peered into my gloom.
My friend Herman’s house. Where I tickle the bell. It is me. Invited to put a vacuum cleaner together. The parts on the floor in alphabetical order. Herman away, making money. I hug his wife Agnes. A beautiful girl. And when no one hugs her tightly, her eyes fill.
When I asked you if you had a private income, you said something intelligent but I forget what. The skin scaling off my back from the week at the beach. Where I lay without knowing you.
Discussing the real estate game, Agnes and I. Into this game I may someday go, I said. Building cheap and renting dear. With a doorman to front for me. Tons of money in it, I said.
When my falling event was postponed, were you disappointed? Did you experience a disillusionment-event?
Hunted for a Post. To lean upon in the black hours ahead. And composed a brochure to lure folk into my new building. Titled “The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself.” Promising 24-hour incineration. And other features.
Dancing on my parquet floor in my parquet shorts. To Mahler.
After you sent me home you came down in your elevator to be kissed. You knew I would be sitting on the steps.
Hiding Man
Enter expecting to find the place empty (I. A. L. Burligame walks through any open door). But it is not, there is a man sitting halfway down the right side, heavy, Negro, well dressed, dark glasses. Decide after moment’s thought that if he is hostile, will flee through door marked EXIT (no bulb behind EXIT sign, no certainty that it leads anywhere). The film is in progress, title Attack of the Puppet People. Previously observed films at same theater, Cool and the Crazy, She Gods of Shark Reef, Night of the Blood Beast, Diary of a High School Bride. All superior examples of genre, tending toward suggested offscreen rapes, obscene tortures: man with huge pliers advancing on disheveled beauty, cut to girl’s face, to pliers, to man’s face, to girl, scream, blackout.
“It’s better when the place is full,” observes Negro, lifting voice slightly to carry over Pinocchio noises from puppet people. Voice pleasant, eyes behind glasses sinister? Choice of responses: anger, agreement, indifference, pique, shame, scholarly dispute. Keep eye on EXIT, what about boy in lobby, what was kite for? “Of course it’s never been full.” Apparently there is going to be a conversation. “Not all these years. As a matter of fact, you’re the first one to come in, ever.”
“People don’t always tell the truth.”
Let him chew that. Boy in lobby wore T-shirt, printed thereon, OUR LADY OF THE SORROWS. Where glimpsed before? Possible agent of the conspiracy, in the pay of the Organization, duties: lying, spying, tapping wires, setting fires, civil disorders. Seat myself on opposite side of theater from Negro and observe film. Screen torn from top to bottom, a large rent, faces and parts of gestures fall off into the void. Hard-pressed U. S. Army, Honest John, Hound Dog, Wowser notwithstanding, psychological warfare and nerve gas notwithstanding, falls back at onrush of puppet people. Young lieutenant defends Army nurse (uniform in rags, tasty thigh, lovely breast) from sexual intent of splinter men.
“Don’t you know the place is closed?” calls friend in friendly tone. “Didn’t you see the sign?”
“The picture is on. And you’re here.”
Signs after all mean everyone, if there are to be exceptions let them be listed: soldiers, sailors, airmen, children with kites, dogs under suitable restraint, distressed gentlefolk, people who promise not to peek. Well-dressed Negroes behind dark glasses in closed theaters, the attempt to scrape acquaintance, the helpful friend with the friendly word, note of menace as in Dragstrip Riot, as in Terror from the Year 5000. Child’s play, amateur night, with whom do they think they have to deal?
“The silly thing just keeps running,” alleges friend. “That’s what’s so fascinating. Continuous performances since 1944. Just keeps rolling along.” Tilts head back, laughs theatrically. “It wasn’t even any good then, for chrissake.”
“Why do you keep coming back?”
“I don’t think that’s an interesting question.”
Friend looks bland, studies film. Fires have started in many areas, the music is demure. I entrust myself to these places advisedly, there are risks but so also are there risks in crossing streets, opening doors, looking strangers in the eye. Man cannot live without placing himself naked before circumstance, as in warfare, under the sea, jet planes, women. Flight is always available, concealment is always possible.
“What I meant was,” continues friend, animated now, smiling and gesturing, “other theaters. When they’re full, you get lost in the crowd. Here, if anybody came in, they’d spot you in a minute. But most people, they believe the sign.”
I. A. L. Burligame walks through any open door, private homes, public gatherings, stores with detectives wearing hats, meetings of Sons and Daughters of I Will Arise, but should I boast? Keep moving, counterpunching, examination of motives reveals appeal of dark places has nothing to do with circumstance. But because I feel warmer. The intimation was, most people do what they are told, NO LOITERING, NO PARKING BETWEEN 8 A.M. AND 5 P.M., KEEP OFF THE GRASS, CLOSED FOR REPAIRS KEEP OUT. Negro moves two seats closer, lowers voice confidentially.
“Of course it’s no concern of mine . . .” Face appears gentle, interested as with old screw in Girl on Death Row, aerialist-cum-strangler in Circus of Horrors. “Of course I couldn’t care less. But frankly, I feel a certain want of seriousness.”
“I am absolutely serious.”
On the other hand, perhaps antagonist is purely, simply what he pretends to be: well-dressed Negro with dark glasses in closed theater. But where then is the wienie? What happens to the twist? All of life is rooted in contradiction, movement in direction of self, two spaces, diagonally, argues hidden threat, there must be room for irony.
“Then what are you doing here?” Friend sits back in sliding seat with air of having clinched argument. “Surely you don’t imagine this is a suitable place?”
“It looked good, from the outside. And there’s no one here but you.”
“Ah, but I am here. What do you know about me? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I could be anybody.”
“So could I be anybody. And I notice that you too keep an eye on the door.”
“Thus, we are problematic for each other.” Said smoothly, with consciousness of power. “Name’s Bane, by the way.” Lights pipe, with flourishes and affectations. “Not my real one, of course.”
“Of course.” Pipe signal to confederates posted in balcony, behind arras, under EXIT signs? Or is all this dumb show merely incidental, concealing vain heart, empty brain? On screen famous scientist has proposed measures to contain puppet people, involving mutant termites thrown against their flank. The country is in a panic, Wall Street has fallen, the President looks grave. And what of young informer in lobby, what is his relevance, who corrupted wearer of T-shirt, holder of kite?
“I’m a dealer in notions,” friend volunteers. “Dancing dolls, learn handwriting analysis by mail, secrets of eternal life, coins and stamps, amaze your friends, pagan rites, abandoned, thrilling, fully illustrated worldwide selection of rare daggers, gurkhas, stilettos, bowies, hunting, throwing.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Like you,” he avers. “Watching the picture. Just dropped in.”
We resume viewing. Role of Bane obscure, possible motives in igniting conversation: (1) Agent of the conspiracy, (2) Fellow sufferer in the underground, (3) Engaged in counterespionage, (4) Talent scout for Police Informers School, (5) Market research for makers of Attack of the Puppet People, (6) Plain nosy bastard unconnected with any of the foregoing. Decide hypotheses (1), (2), and (6) most tenable, if (6), however, simple snubs should have done the job, as administered in remark “People don’t always tell the truth.” Also discourse has hidden pattern, too curious, too knowledgeable in sociology of concealment. Cover story thin, who confines himself to rare daggers, gurkhas, bowies, hunting, throwing in this day and age when large-scale fraud is possible to even the most inept operator, as in government wheat, television, uranium, systems development, public relations? Also disguise is commonplace, why a Negro, why a Negro in dark glasses, why sitting in the dark? Now he pretends fascination with events on screen, he says it has been playing since 1944, whereas I know to my certain knowledge that last week it was She Gods of Shark Reef, before that Night of the Blood Beast, Diary of a High School Bride, Cool and the Crazy. Coming: Reform School Girl on double bill with Invasion of the Saucer Men. Why lie? or is he attempting to suggest the mutability of time? Odor of sweetness from somewhere, flowers growing in cracks of floor, underneath the seats? Possible verbena, possible gladiolus, iris, phlox. Can’t identify at this distance, what does he want? Now he looks sincere, making face involves removing glasses (his eyes burn in the dark), wrinkling forehead, drawing down corners of mouth, he does it very well.
“Tell me exactly what it is you hide from,” he drops, the Enola Gay on final leg of notorious mission.
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