Going For a Beer

by Robert Coover

  Thinking: If this is the price of beauty, it’s too high. I was glad she was dead.

  THE FALLGUY’S FAITH

  (1976)

  Falling from favor, or grace, some high artifice, down he dropped like a discredited predicate through what he called space (sometimes he called it time) and with an earsplitting crack splattered the base earth with his vital attributes. Oh, I’ve had a great fall, he thought as he lay there, numb with terror, trying desperately to pull himself together again. This time (or space) I’ve really done it! He had fallen before of course: short of expectations, into bad habits, out with his friends, upon evil days, foul of the law, in and out of love, down in the dumps—indeed, as though egged on by some malevolent metaphor generated by his own condition, he had always been falling, had he not?—but this was the most terrible fall of all. It was like the very fall of pride, of stars, of Babylon, of cradles and curtains and angels and rain, like the dread fall of silence, of sparrows, like the fall of doom. It was, in a word, as he knew now, surrendering to the verb of all flesh, the last fall (his last anyway: as for the chips, he sighed, releasing them, let them fall where they may)—yet why was it, he wanted to know, why was it that everything that had happened to him had seemed to have happened in language? Even this! Almost as though, without words for it, it might not have happened at all! Had he been nothing more, after all was said and done, than a paraphrastic curiosity, an idle trope, within some vast syntactical flaw of existence? Had he fallen, he worried as he closed his eyes for the last time and consigned his name to history (may it take it or leave it), his juices to the soil (was it soil?), merely to have it said he had fallen? Ah! tears tumbled down his cheeks, damply echoing thereby the greater fall, now so ancient that he himself was beginning to forget it (a farther fall perhaps than all the rest, this forgetting: a fall as it were within a fall), and it came to him in these fading moments that it could even be said that, born to fall, he had perhaps fallen simply to be born (birth being less than it was cracked up to be, to coin a phrase)! Yes, yes, it could be said, what can not be said, but he didn’t quite believe it, didn’t quite believe either that accidence held the world together. No, if he had faith in one thing, this fallguy (he came back to this now), it was this: in the beginning was the gesture, and that gesture was: he opened his mouth to say it aloud (to prove some point or other?), but too late—his face cracked into a crooked smile and the words died on his lips . . .

  IN BED ONE NIGHT

  (1980)

  so one night he comes in from using the bathroom takes off his clothes stretches scratches himself puts on his pajamas yawns sets the alarm turns down the sheets crawls into bed fumbles for the lightswitch above him bumps something soft with his elbow which turns out to be a pale whitehaired lady in a plain gray nightgown lying in bed beside him wha—?! he cries out in alarm and demanding an explanation is told she has been assigned to his bed by the social security it’s the shortage she says the s’s not coming out just right her teeth he sees now in a glass of water on the nighttable private beds are a luxury the world can no longer afford she explains adding that she hopes he won’t kick during the night because of her brother who has only one leg is ailing poor soul and is sleeping at the foot of the bed (this is true he feels him there sees him knobby old gent in a cloth cap and long underwear one leg empty pinned up to the rear flap) all of which takes him by surprise and with a gasp he says so to which the old lady replies in her prim toothless way that yes yes life in the modern world what there is left of it is not always easy young man it’s what they call the progress of civilized paradox she’s heard about it on the television but at least at least he still has his own bed has he not he’s after all luckier than most naming no names (she sighs) even if it is only a three-quarters and a bit tight for five and—five!! he cries rearing up in panic five—? and sure enough there they are two more three in fact how did he miss them before a skinny oriental huddling down behind the old lady dishwater hands shifty eyes antiseptic smell quivering taut as a mainspring and on this side just arriving a heavybellied worker in oily overalls staggering toward the bed with a fat woman tottering on stiletto heels huge butt squeezed shinily into a tight green dress hair undone eyes wet their faces smeared with sweat and paint and cockeyed the—look out!—both of them as they—crash!—hit the nighttable send it flying lamp waterglass teeth and all upsetting the old lady needless to say who goes crawling around on the splashed bed on her hands and knees looking for the teeth spluttering petulantly through her flabby lips that woman’s not allowed here it’s not fair they said five! the worker paying no mind or too drunk to hear hauling off his overalls kicking them aside his underwear belching growling pushing the woman toward the bed cracking her big ass soundly when she hesitates making her yelp with pain not here Duke not with that old lady watching shut up goddamn you I don’t ask for much the old lady is complaining still scratching about for her dentures justice that’s all a little respect dignity a dress rips the worker blows a beery fart it’s a hard thing growing old but I don’t ask for any prizes—pwitheth she says—and look at that chink Duke look at his goddamn eyes bug what’s he staring at but the worker just grunts irritably and shoves her roughly onto the bed and onto its erstwhile owner now too overcome by the well-meant outrages of a world turned to rubble and mercy even to move ah me! all this order he thinks as the worker plummets down upon them both like a felled tree and commences to fumble groggily for the bawling fat woman’s seat of bliss (he could show him where it is but if he doesn’t know how to ask politely then to hell with him) all this desperate husbandry this tender regulation of woe the whore on him weeping and groaning now ass high and soft legs flailing believe me says the old lady crankily still on her bony knees if I don’t find my dentures there’ll be the dickens to pay I mean it—my denthyurth she says—it ain’t fair complains the old man at the foot of the bed him having a woman all to hisself that ain’t square ignore them Albert says the old lady don’t encourage them she’s not even supposed to be here I know my rights insists the old man and gets a foot in the face for them they’s a law—splut! kaff!—he squawks disappearing over the foot of the bed which is now rocking and creaking fearsomely with the mighty thrashing about of the drunken lovers linked up on top of what on a different occasion might loosely be thought of as the host knocking his wind out whap whump oh Duke my god Duke gasp! Albert—? a sweet stink rising are you all right Albert? and true the pounding friction wet and massive giving him a certain local pleasure for all the burden of it but it does not console him what can? sunk as he is in the dark corruptions of nostalgia dreaming of the good old days get back up here Albert you’ll catch your death oh Christ Duke—slop! slap!—kill that—pant!—kill that chink Duke break his fucking neck pop his yellow eyes out yes alas those days of confusion profligacy ruthless solitude tears come to his eyes just thinking about them as the old man reappears at the foot crawling hand over hand the pin that was holding up his empty pantleg between his teeth the old lady remonstrating no violence now please the oriental crouching tremulous on the pillow by the headboard with a knife a gentle answer Albert turneth away—screams groans grunts the worker roaring in pain and rage oh my god Duke! but he wipes away the foolish tears angry with his own weakness forget those days they’re gone and just as well he lectures himself as a pale woman enters with three runnynosed kids clinging to her limp skirts there’s been some mistake but we’re awfully tired sir just a little corner—? Yes forget those stupid times get some sleep and then tomorrow it’s down to the social security for a new bed assignment a pretty lady maybe to hear his case Duke? report the losses tidy up wash the sheets out are you okay? say something Duke and lulled by the heavy rhythms of fucking and weeping the kids wrestling their mother whispering at them to settle down or the nice man will ask them to leave the old lady’s gummy scolding he drifts off dreaming of a short queue happy accidents and wondering if he Duke? remembered to switch off the bathroom light aack! screw the cap back on the toothpa
ste now what have you done Albert oh no! thwallowed the pin—?!

  THE TINKERER

  (1981)

  he took a chance and invented mind

  set it walking around jumping up and down seeing what it would do

  if it could turn circles cut corners take steep hills how long before it ran down

  not long and it was stiff and jerky at first cutting corners that weren’t there and circling right into heavy traffic

  or through plate glass windows over precipices not very promising other inventions had worked better: heart appetite the city

  whack bam sputter thud probably ought to shitcan this one he thought

  start over with something new like melody or force work with what you know: the old rule

  yet even as mind lunged and tottered through its catastrophes

  even as it splattered against brick walls and found itself treading air a mile up in the sky clutching for the skyscraper ledge or the edge of the cliff

  there was something engaging about it something that made him

  keep watching

  hard to put one’s finger on it impossible in fact

  at least while it was moving

  but it was ah

  well it was something new

  yes it was different somehow it had a certain style

  maybe I’m on to something after all he thought just a few simple adjustments

  so he waited for it to run down screwed in number data recall concept projection syntax wonder crossed a few wires and wound it up again hoping for the best or at least a brief entertainment

  but

  the results were much the same except that now it ran at the walls charged the traffic and leapt off the precipices dropping without so much as an endearing whistle

  goddamn it

  too late he realized that what he’d invented was not mind but love and now he’d gone and blown it

  always a tinkerer he rebuked himself can’t ever leave well enough alone

  he tried to get ahold of his invention take all that junk out but it was running amok

  cars were crashing women screaming men were shinnying up lampposts the seats of their pants chewed away

  children laughed and went to play with it it ate them up

  his own wife fell down and frothed at the mouth

  buildings toppled ships sank the fields turned brown the city fathers ugly

  I’M NOT RESPONSIBLE! he cried as they came after him

  but though the thing was still on a rampage and only he could fix it

  they outlawed inventions and inventors ordered the tinkerer boiled in oil

  so what could he do he broke away went underground

  holing up in caves sewers abandoned farmhouses hollow trees

  on the run just kidding himself he knew he couldn’t get away

  knew if the city fathers didn’t get him his invention would

  he could hear it whumping hugely around out there

  wrecking the world

  it would come crashing crazily in on him someday and tear him apart making him sorry he’d passed up that simple bath in the cauldron

  no

  not even his newest brainstorm could save him now could he finish it and he couldn’t

  but he went on anyway this tinkerer

  frantically inventing serenity

  and dreaming as he staggered through sleepless nights with his screwdriver safety pins and ball of twine

  of a steadfast world free of slapdash and stumble

  and the menace of misbegotten thingamajigs

  YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS

  (1985)

  It is dark in Rick’s apartment. Black leader dark, heavy and abstract, silent but for a faint hoarse crackle like a voiceless plaint, and brief as sleep. Then Rick opens the door and the light from the hall scissors in like a bellboy to open up space, deposit surfaces (there is a figure in the room), harbinger event (it is Ilsa). Rick follows, too preoccupied to notice: his café is closed, people have been shot, he has troubles. But then, with a stroke, he lights a small lamp (such a glow! The shadows retreat, everything retreats: where are the walls?) and there she is, facing him, holding open the drapery at the far window like the front of a nightgown, the light flickering upon her white but determined face like static. Rick pauses for a moment in astonishment. Ilsa lets the drapery and its implications drop, takes a step forward into the strangely fretted light, her eyes searching his.

  “How did you get in?” he asks, though this is probably not the question on his mind.

  “The stairs from the street.”

  This answer seems to please him. He knows how vulnerable he is, after all, it’s the way he lives—his doors are open, his head is bare, his tuxedo jacket is snowy white—that’s not important. What matters is that by such a reply a kind of destiny is being fulfilled. Sam has a song about it. “I told you this morning you’d come around,” he says, curling his lips as if to advertise his appetite for punishment, “but this is a little ahead of schedule.” She faces him squarely, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, a sash around her waist like a gun belt, something shiny in her tensed left hand. He raises both his own as if to show they are empty: “Well, won’t you sit down?”

  His offer, whether in mockery or no, releases her. Her shoulders dip in relief, her breasts; she sweeps forward (it is only a small purse she is carrying: a toothbrush perhaps, cosmetics, her hotel key), her face softening: “Richard!” He starts back in alarm, hands moving to his hips. “I had to see you!”

  “So you use Richard again!” His snarling retreat throws up a barrier between them. She stops. He pushes his hands into his pockets as though to reach for the right riposte: “We’re back in Paris!”

  That probably wasn’t it. Their song seems to be leaking into the room from somewhere out in the night, or perhaps it has been there all the time—Sam maybe, down in the darkened bar, sending out soft percussive warnings in the manner of his African race: “Think twice, boss. Hearts fulla passion, you c’n rely. Jealousy, boss, an’ hate. Le’s go fishin’. Sam.”

  “Please!” she begs, staring at him intently, but he remains unmoved:

  “Your unexpected visit isn’t connected by any chance with the letters of transit?” He ducks his head, his upper lip swelling with bitterness and hurt. “It seems as long as I have those letters, I’ll never be lonely.”

  Yet, needless to say, he will always be lonely—in fact, this is the confession (“You can ask any price you want,” she is saying) only half-concealed in his muttered subjoinder: Rick Blaine is a loner, born and bred. Pity him. There is this lingering, almost primal image of him, sitting alone at a chessboard in his white tuxedo, smoking contemplatively in the midst of a raucous conniving crowd, a crowd he has himself assembled about him. He taps a pawn, moves a white knight, fondles a tall black queen while a sardonic smile plays on his lips. He seems to be toying, self-mockingly, with Fate itself, as indifferent toward Rick Blaine (never mind that he says—as he does now, turning away from her—that “I’m the only cause I’m interested in . . .”) as toward the rest of the world. It’s all shit, so who cares?

  Ilsa is staring off into space, a space that a moment ago Rick filled. She seems to be thinking something out. The negotiations are going badly; perhaps it is this she is worried about. He has just refused her offer of “any price,” ignored her ultimatum (“You must giff me those letters!”), sneered at her husband’s heroism, and scoffed at the very cause that first brought them together in Paris. How could he do that? And now he has abruptly turned his back on her (does he think it was just sex? what has happened to him since then?) and walked away toward the balcony door, meaning, apparently, to turn her out. She takes a deep breath, presses her lips together, and, clutching her tiny purse with both hands, wheels about to pursue him: “Richard!” This has worked before, it works again: he turns to face her new approach: “We luffed each other once . . .” Her voice catches in her throat, tears come to her eyes. She is be
autiful there in the slatted shadows, her hair loosening around her ears, eyes glittering, throat bare and vulnerable in the open V-neck of her ruffled blouse. She’s a good dresser. Even that little purse she squeezes: so like the other one, so lovely, hidden away. She shakes her head slightly in wistful appeal: “If those days meant . . . anything at all to you . . .”

  “I wouldn’t bring up Paris if I were you,” he says stonily. “It’s poor salesmanship.”

  She gasps (she didn’t bring it up: is he a madman?), tosses her head back: “Please! Please listen to me!” She closes her eyes, her lower lip pushed forward as though bruised. “If you knew what really happened, if you only knew the truth—!”

  He stands over this display, impassive as a Moorish executioner (that’s it! he’s turning into one of these bloody Arabs, she thinks). “I wouldn’t believe you, no matter what you told me,” he says. In Ethiopia, after an attempt on the life of an Italian officer, he saw 1600 Ethiopians get rounded up one night and shot in reprisal. Many were friends of his. Or clients anyway. But somehow her deceit is worse. “You’d say anything now, to get what you want.” Again he turns his back on her, strides away.

  She stares at him in shocked silence, as though all that had happened eighteen months ago in Paris were flashing suddenly before her eyes, now made ugly by some terrible revelation. An exaggerated gasp escapes her like the breaking of wind: his head snaps up and he turns sharply to the right. She chases him, dogging his heels. “You want to feel sorry for yourself, don’t you?” she cries and, surprised (he was just reaching for something on an ornamental table, the humidor perhaps), he turns back to her. “With so much at stake, all you can think off is your own feeling,” she rails. Her lips are drawn back, her breathing labored, her eyes watering in anger and frustration. “One woman has hurt you, and you take your reffenge on the rest off the world!” She is choking, she can hardly speak. Her accent seems to have got worse. “You’re a coward, und veakling, und—”