Flying to America

by Donald Barthelme

  Bomb fails to fire, Burligame reacts not. Face the image of careless gaiety, in his own atrocious phrase, couldn’t care less. Bane now addresses task con amore, it is clear that he is a professional, but sent by whom? In these times everything is very difficult, the lines of demarcation are not clear.

  “Look,” pleads he, moving two spaces nearer, whispering, “I know you’re hiding, you know you’re hiding, I will make a confession, I too am hiding. We have discovered each other, we are mutually embarrassed, we watch the exits, we listen for the sound of rough voices, the sound of betrayal. Why not confide in me, why not make common cause, every day is a little longer, sometimes I think my hearing is gone, sometimes my eyes close without instruction. Two can watch better than one, I will even tell you my real name.”

  Possible emotions in the face of blatant sincerity: repugnance, withdrawal, joy, flight, camaraderie, denounce him to the authorities (there are still authorities). And yet, is this not circumstance before which the naked Burligame might dangle, is this not real life, risk, and danger, as in Voodoo Woman, as in Creature from the Black Lagoon?

  Bane continues, “My real name (how can I say it?) is Adrian Hipkiss, it is this among other things I flee. Can you imagine being named Adrian Hipkiss, the snickers, the jokes, the contumely, it was insupportable. There were other items, in 1944 I mailed a letter in which I didn’t say what I meant, I moved the next day, it was New Year’s Eve and all the moving men were drunk, they broke a leg on the piano. For fear it would return to accuse me. My life since has been one mask after another, Watford, Watkins, Watley, Watlow, Watson, Watt, now identity is gone, blown away, who am I, who knows?”

  Bane-Hipkiss begins to sob, cooling system switches on, city life a texture of mysterious noises, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, we win control of the physical environment only at the expense of the auditory, what if one were sensitive, what if one flinched in the dark? Mutant termites devouring puppet people at a great rate, decorations for the scientists, tasty nurse for young lieutenant, they will end it with a joke if possible, meaning: it was not real after all. Cheating exists on every level, the attempt to deny what the eye reveals, what the mind knows to be true. Bane-Hipkiss strains credulity, a pig in a poke, if not (6) or (1) am I prepared to deal with (2)? Shall there be solidarity? But weeping is beyond toleration, unnatural, it should be reserved for great occasions, the telegram in the depths of the night, rail disasters, earthquakes, war.

  “I hide from the priests” (my voice curiously tentative, fluting), “when I was the tallest boy in the eighth grade at Our Lady of the Sorrows they wanted me to go out for basketball, I would not, Father Blau the athletic priest said I avoided wholesome sport to seek out occasions of sin, in addition to the sin of pride, in addition to various other sins carefully enumerated before an interested group of my contemporaries.”

  Bane-Hipkiss brightens, ceases sobbing, meanwhile film begins again, puppet people move once more against U. S. Army, they are invincible, Honest John is a joke, Hound Dog malfunctions, Wowser detonates on launching pad, flower smell stronger and sweeter, are they really growing underneath our feet, is time in truth passing?

  “Father Blau took his revenge in the confessional, he insisted on knowing everything. And there was so much to know. Because I no longer believed as I was supposed to believe. Or believed too much, indiscriminately. To one who has always been overly susceptible to slogans they should never have said: You can change the world. I suggested to my confessor that certain aspects of the ritual compared unfavorably with the resurrection scene in Bride of Frankenstein. He was shocked.”

  Bane-Hipkiss pales, he himself is shocked.

  “But because he had, as it were, a vested interest in me, he sought to make clear the error of my ways. I did not invite this interest, it embarrassed me, I had other things on my mind. Was it my fault that in all that undernourished parish only I had secreted sufficient hormones, had chewed thoroughly enough the soup and chips that were our daily fare, to push head and hand in close proximity to the basket?”

  “You could have faked a sprained ankle,” Bane-Hipkiss says reasonably.

  “That was unfortunately only the beginning. One day in the midst of a good Act of Contrition, Father Blau officiating with pious malice, I leaped from the box and sprinted down the aisle, never to return. Running past people doing the Stations of the Cross, past the tiny Negro lady, somebody’s maid, our only black parishioner, who always sat in the very last row with a handkerchief over her head. Leaving Father Blau, unregenerate, with the sorry residue of our weekly encounter: impure thoughts, anger, dirty words, disobedience.”

  Bane-Hipkiss travels two seats nearer (why two at a time?), there is an edge to his voice. “Impure thoughts?”

  “My impure thoughts were of a particularly detailed and graphic kind, involving at that time principally Nedda Ann Bush who lived two doors down the street from us and was handsomely developed. Under whose windows I crouched on many long nights awaiting revelations of beauty, the light being just right between the bureau and the window. Being rewarded on several occasions, namely 3 May 1942 with a glimpse of famous bust, 18 October 1943, a particularly chill evening, transfer of pants from person to clothes hamper, coupled with three minutes’ subsequent exposure in state of nature. Before she thought to turn out the light.”

  “Extraordinary!” Bane-Hipkiss exhales noisily. It is clear that confession is doing him good in some obscure way. “But surely this priest extended some sort of spiritual consolation, counsel . . .”

  “He once offered me part of a Baby Ruth.”

  “This was a mark of favor?”

  “He wanted me to grow. It was in his own interest. His eye was on the All-City title.”

  “But it was an act of kindness.”

  “That was before I told him I wasn’t going out. In the dark box with sliding panels, faces behind screen as in Bighouse Baby, as in Mysterious House of Usher, he gave me only steadfast refusal to understand these preoccupations, wholly natural and good interests in female parts however illicitly pursued, as under window. Coupled with skilled questioning intended to bring forth every final detail, including self-abuse and compulsive overconsumption of Baby Ruths, Mars Bars, Butterfingers, significance of which in terms of sexual self-aggrandizement was first pointed out to me by this good and holy man.”

  Bane-Hipkiss looks disturbed, why not? it is a disturbing story, there are things in this world that disgust, life is not all Vistavision and Thunderbirds, even Mars Bars have hidden significance, dangerous to plumb. The eradication of risk is the work of women’s organizations and foundations, few of us, alas, can be great sinners.

  “Became therefore a convinced anticlerical. No longer loved God, cringed at words ‘My son,’ fled blackrobes wherever they appeared, pronounced anathemas where appropriate, blasphemed, wrote dirty limericks involving rhymes for ‘nunnery,’ was in fine totally alienated. Then it became clear that this game was not so one-sided as had at first appeared, that there was a pursuit.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “This was revealed to me by a renegade Brother of the Holy Sepulcher, a not overbright man but good in secret recesses of heart, who had been employed for eight years as cook in bishop’s palace. He alleged that on wall of bishop’s study was map, placed there were pins representing those in the diocese whose souls were at issue.”

  “Good God!” expletes Bane-Hipkiss, is there a faint flavor here of . . .

  “It is kept rigorously up-to-date by the coadjutor, a rather political man. As are, in my experience, most church functionaries just under episcopal rank. Paradoxically, the bishop himself is a saint.”

  Bane-Hipkiss looks incredulous. “You still believe in saints?”

  “I believe in saints,

  “Holy water,

  “Poor boxes,

  “Ashes on Ash Wednesday,

  “Lilies on Easter Sunday,

  “Crèches, censers, choirs,

  “Alb
s, Bibles, miters, martyrs,

  “Little red lights,

  “Ladies of the Altar Society,

  “Knights of Columbus,

  “Cassocks and cruets,

  “Dispensations and indulgences,

  “The efficacy of prayer,

  “Right Reverends and Very Reverends,

  “Tabernacles, monstrances,

  “Bells ringing, people singing,

  “Wine and bread,

  “Sisters, Brothers, Fathers,

  “The right of sanctuary,

  “The primacy of the papacy,

  “Bulls and concordats,

  “The Index, the Last Judgment,

  “Heaven and Hell,

  “I believe it all. It’s impossible not to believe. That’s what makes things so difficult.”

  “But then . . .”

  “It was basketball I didn’t believe in.”

  But there is more, it was the first ritual which discovered to me the possibility of other rituals, other celebrations, for instance, Blood of Dracula, Amazing Colossal Man, It Conquered the World. Can Bane-Hipkiss absorb this nice theological point, that one believes what one can, follows that vision which most brilliantly exalts and vilifies the world? Alone in the dark one surrenders to Amazing Colossal Man all hope, all desire, meanwhile the bishop sends out his patrols, the canny old priests, the nuns on simple errands in stately pairs, I remember the year everyone wore black, what dodging into doorways, what obscene haste in crossing streets!

  Bane-Hipkiss blushes, looks awkward, shuffles feet, opens mouth to speak.

  “I have a confession.”

  “Confess,” I urge, “feel free.”

  “I was sent here.”

  Under their noses or in Tibet, they have agents even in the lamaseries.

  “That reminds me of something,” I state, but Bane-Hipkiss rises, raises hand to head, commands: “Look!” As Burligame shrinks he strips away his skin. Clever Bane-Hipkiss, now he has me, I sit gape-mouthed, he stands grinning with skin draped like dead dishrag over paw, he is white! I pretend imperturbability. “That reminds me, regarding the point I was making earlier, the film we are viewing is an interesting example . . .”

  But he interrupts.

  “Your position, while heretical, has its points,” he states, “but on the other hand we cannot allow the integrity of our operation to be placed in question, willy-nilly, by people with funny ideas. Father Blau was wrong, we get some lemons just like any other group. On the other hand if every one of our people takes it into his head to flee us, who will be saved? You might start a trend. It was necessary to use this” (holds up falseface guiltily) “to get close to you, it was for the health of your soul.”

  Barefaced Bane-Hipkiss rattles on, has Burligame at last been taken, must he give himself up? There is still the sign marked EXIT, into the john, up on the stool, out through the window. “I am empowered to use force,” he imparts, frowning.

  “Regarding the point I was making earlier,” I state, “or beginning to make, the film we are watching is itself a ritual, many people view such films and refuse to understand what they are saying, consider the . . .”

  “At present I have more pressing business,” he says, “will you come quietly?”

  “No,” I affirm, “pay attention to the picture, it is trying to tell you something, revelation is not so frequent in these times that one can afford to diddle it away.”

  “I must warn you,” he replies, “that to a man filled with zeal nothing is proscribed. Zeal,” he states proudly, “is my middle name.”

  “I will not stir.”

  “You must.”

  Now Bane-Hipkiss moves lightly on little priest’s feet, sidewise through rows of seats, a cunning smile on face now revealed as hierarchical, hands clasped innocently in front of him to demonstrate purity of intent. Strange high howling noises, as in Night of the Blood Beast, fearful reddish cast to sky, as in It Conquered the World, where do they come from? The sweetness from beneath the seats is overpowering, I attempted to warn him but he would not hear, slip the case from jacket pocket, join needle to deadly body of instrument, crouch in readiness. Bane-Hipkiss advances, eyes clamped shut in mystical ecstasy, I grasp him by the throat, plunge needle into neck, his eyes bulge, his face collapses, he subsides quivering into a lump among the seats, in a moment he will begin barking like a dog.

  Most people haven’t the wit to be afraid, most view television, smoke cigars, fondle wives, have children, vote, plant gladiolus, iris, phlox, never confront Screaming Skull, Teenage Werewolf, Beast with a Thousand Eyes, no conception of what lies beneath the surface, no faith in any manifestation not certified by hierarchy. Who is safe with Teenage Werewolf abroad, with streets under sway of Beast with a Thousand Eyes? People think these things are jokes, but they are wrong, it is dangerous to ignore a vision, consider Bane-Hipkiss, he has begun to bark.

  The Reference

  Warp.”

  “In the character?”

  “He warp ever’ which way.”

  “You don’t think we should consider him then.”

  “My friend Shel McPartland whom I have known deeply and intimately and too well for more than twenty years, is, sir, a brilliant O.K. engineer-master builder-cum-city and state planner. He’ll plan your whole cotton-pickin’ state for you, if you don’t watch him. Right down to the flowers on the sideboard in the governor’s mansion. He’ll choose marginalia.”

  “I sir am not familiar sir with that particular bloom sir.”

  “Didn’t think you would be, you bein’ from Arkansas and therefore likely less than literate. You are from Arkansas State Planning Commission, are you not?”

  “I am one of it. Mr. McPartland gave you as a reference.”

  “Well sir let me tell you sir that my friend Shel McPartland who has incautiously put me down as a reference has a wide-ranging knowledge of all modern techniques, theories, dodges, orthodoxies, heresies, new and old innovations, and scams of all kinds. The only thing about him is, he warp.”

  “Sir, it is not necessary to use dialect when being telephone-called from the state of Arkansas.”

  “Different folk I talk to in different ways. I got to keep myself interested.”

  “I understand that. Leaving aside the question of warp for a minute: let me ask you this: Is Mr. McPartland what you would call a hard worker?”

  “Hard, but warp. He sort of goes off in his own direction.”

  “Not a team player.”

  “Very much a team player. You get your own team out there, and he’ll play it, and beat it, all by his own self.”

  “Does he fiddle with women?”

  “No. He has too much love and respect for women. He has so much love and respect for women that he has nothing to do with them. At all.”

  “You said earlier that you wouldn’t trust him to salt a mine shaft with silver dollars.”

  “Well sir that was before I fully understood the nature of your interest. I thought maybe you were thinking of going into business with him. Or some other damn-fool thing of that sort. Now that I understand that it’s a government gig . . . You folks don’t go around salting mine shafts with silver dollars, do you?”

  “No sir, that work comes under the competence of the Arkansas Board of Earth Resources.”

  “So, not to worry.”

  “But it doesn’t sound very likely if I may say so Mr. Cockburn sir that Mr. McPartland would neatly infit with our outfit. Which must of necessity as I’m sure you’re hip to sir concern itself mostly with the mundanities.”

  “McPartland is sublime with the mundanities.”

  “Truly?”

  “You should see him tying his shoes. Tying other people’s shoes. He’s good at inking-in. Excellent at erasing. One of the great erasers of our time. Plotting graphs. Figuring use-densities. Diddling flow charts. Inflating statistics. Issuing modestly deceptive reports. Chairing and charming. Dowsing for foundation funds. Only a fool and a simpleton sir
would let Mr. McPartland slip through his fingers.”

  “But before you twigged to the fact sir that your role was that of a referencer, you signaled grave and serious doubts.”

  “I have them still. I told you he was warp and he is warp. I am attempting dear friend to give you Mr. McPartland in the round. The whole man. The gravamen and the true gen. When we reference it up, here in the shop, we don’t stint. Your interrobang meets our galgenspiel. We do good work.”

  “But is he reliable?”

  “Reliability sir is much overrated. He is inspired. What does this lick pay, by the way?”

  “In the low forties with perks.”

  “The perks include?”

  “Arkansas sir. Chauffered VW to and from place of employment. Crab gumbo in the cafeteria every Tuesday. Ruffles and flourishes played on the Muzak upon entry and exit from building. Crab gumbo in the cafeteria every Thursday. Sabbaticals every second, third, and fifth year. Ox stoptions.”

  “The latter term is not known to me.”

  “Holder of the post is entitled to stop a runmad ox in the main street of Little Rock every Saturday at high noon, preventing thereby the mashing to strawberry yogurt of one small child furnished by management. Photograph of said act to appear in the local blats the following Sunday, along with awarding of medal by the mayor. On TV.”

  “Does the population never tire of this heroicidal behavior?”

  “It’s bread and circuitry in the modern world, sir, and no place in that world is more modern than Arkansas.”

  “Wherefrom do you get your crabs?”

  “From our great sister state of Lose-e-anna, whereat the best world-class eating crabs hang out.”

  “The McPartland is a gumbohead from way back, this must be known to you from your other investigations.”

  “The organization is not to be tweedled with. Shelbaby’s partialities will be catered to, if and when. Now I got a bunch more questions here. Like, is he good?”

  “Good don’t come close. One need only point to his accomplishment in re the sewer system of Detroit, Mich. By the sewage of Detroit I sat down and wept, from pure stunned admiration.”