Her grandmother opened her near eye again and studied her a moment before emitting a mournful grunt and closing it again. All right then, she mumbled. Forget it. Do as you damned well please. Oh dear, she’d hurt her feelings anyway. Her grandmother burped sourly again and a big red tongue flopped out below her swollen nose and dangled like a dry rag on a line, or her own cap hanging there.
I’m sorry, Grandma. It’s just that it scares me the way you look now.
However I look, she groaned, it can’t be half so bad as how I feel. Her grandmother gaped her mouth hugely and ran her long dry tongue around the edges. It must have been—fooshh!—something I ate.
She felt an urge to remark on her grandmother’s big toothy mouth which was quite shocking to see when it opened all the way (so unlike her mother’s mouth), but thought better of it. It would just make her grandmother even sadder. She’d said too much already, and once she started to ask questions, the list could get pretty long, not even counting the parts she couldn’t see. Her big ears for example, not quite hidden by the nightcap. She remembered a story her grandmother told her about a little boy who was born with donkey ears. And all the rest was donkey, too. It was a sad story that ended happily when the donkey boy got into bed with a princess. She began to regret not having crawled into bed with her poor grandmother when she begged it of her. If she asked again, she would do it. Hold her breath and do it. Isn’t there some way I can help, Grandma?
The only thing you’re good for, child, would just make things worse. Her grandmother lapped at her nose with her long tongue, making an ominous scratchy sound. Woof. I’m really not feeling well.
I’m sorry . . .
And so you should be. It’s your fault, you know.
Oh! Was it something I brought you that made you sick?
No, she snapped crossly, but you led me to it.
Did I? I didn’t mean to.
Bah. Innocence. I eat up innocence. Grandma gnashed her teeth and another rumble rolled up from deep inside and escaped her. When I’m able to eat anything at all . . . foo. . . She opened her eye and squinted it at her. What big eyes you have, young lady. What are you staring at?
Your. . . your nose, Grandma.
What’s the matter with it? Her grandmother reached one hand out from under the bedding to touch it. Her hand was black and hairy like her nose and her fingernails had curled to ugly claws.
Oh, it’s a very nice nose, but . . . it’s so . . . Are you dying, Grandma? she blurted out at last.
There was a grumpy pause, filled only with a snort or two. Then her grandmother sighed morosely and grunted. Looks like it. Worse luck. Not what I had in mind at all. She turned her head to scowl at her with both dark eyes, the frill of the nightcap down over her thick brows giving her a clownish cross-eyed look. She had to smile, she couldn’t stop herself. Hey, smartypants, what’s funny? You’re going to die, too, you know, you’re not getting out of this.
I suppose so. But not now.
Her grandmother glared at her for a moment, quite ferociously, then turned her head away and closed her eyes once more. No, she said. Not now. And she lapped scratchily at her nose again. In a story she’d read in a book, there was a woman whose nose got turned into a long blood sausage because of a bad wish, and the way her grandmother tongued her black nose made her think of it. Did her grandmother wish for something she shouldn’t have?
I sort of know what dying is, Grandma. I had a bird with a broken wing and it died and turned cold and didn’t do anything after that. And living, well, that’s like every day. Mostly I like it. But what’s the point if you just have to die and not be and forget everything?
How should I know what the damned point is, her grandmother growled. She lay there in the heaped bedding, nose high, her red tongue dangling once more below it. She didn’t move. It was very quiet. Was she already dead? Or just thinking? Appetite, her grandmother said finally, breaking the silence. And the end of appetite. That’s it.
That was more like the Grandma she knew. She had lots of stories about being hungry or about eating too much or the wrong things. Like the one about the little girl whose father ate her brother. He liked it so much he sucked every bone (now every time she ate a chicken wing, she thought of that father). The little girl gathered all the bones he threw under the table and put them together and her brother became a boy again. Grandma often told stories about naughty boys and cruel fathers, but the little boy in this story was nice and the father was quite nice, too, even if he did sometimes eat children.
Her grandmother popped her eye open suddenly and barked in her deep raspy voice: Don’t look too closely! It scared her and made her jump back. She’d been leaning in, trying to see the color of the skin under the black hairs. It was a color something like that of old driftwood. Look too closely at anything, her grandmother said, letting the dark lid fall over her eye once more and tilting her nose toward the ceiling, and what you’ll see is nothing. And then you’ll see it everywhere, you won’t be able to see anything else. She gaped her jaws and burped grandly. Big mistake, she growled.
The thing about her grandmother’s nose, so different from her own, or from anyone’s she knew, she thought as she put the kettle on for tea, was that it seemed to say so much more to her than her grandmother did. Her nose was big and rough, but at the same time it looked so naked and sad and kind of embarrassing. She couldn’t figure out exactly what she thought about it. Grandma’s talk was blunt and plain and meant just what it said, no more. The nose was more mysterious and seemed to be saying several things to her at once. It was like reading a story about putting a brother back together with his licked bones and discovering later it was really about squashing bad ladies, one meaning hidden under another one, like bugs under a stone. With a pestle, she ground some of the herbs she’d brought in a mortar, then climbed up on a chair to get a cup down from the cupboard. Her grandmother’s nose was both funny and frightening at the same time, and hinted at worlds beyond her imagination. Worlds, maybe, she didn’t really want to live in. If you die, Grandma, she said, crawling down from the chair, I’ll save all your bones.
To chew on, I hope, her grandmother snapped, sinking deeper into the bedding. Which reminds me, she added, somewhat more lugubriously. One thing your grandmother said, as I now recall, was: Don’t bite off more than you can chew.
Yes. But you’re my grandmother.
That’s right. Well—wuurpp!—don’t forget it. Now go away. Leave me alone. Before I bite your head off just to shut you up.
This dying was surely a hard thing that her grandmother was going through, one had to expect a little bad temper. Even her grandmother’s nose seemed grayer than it had been before, her tongue more rag-like in its lifeless dangle, her stomach rumblings more dangerously eruptive. It was like she had some wild angry beast inside her. It made her shudder. Dying was definitely not something to look forward to. The kettle was boiling so she scraped the mortar grindings into the cup and filled it full of hot water, set the cup on the table beside the bed. Here, Grandma. This will make you feel better. Her grandmother only snarled peevishly.
Later, when she got home, her mother asked her how Grandma was feeling. Not very well, she said. A wolf had eaten her and got into bed in Grandma’s nightclothes and he asked me to get in bed with him. Did you do that? No, I sort of wanted to. But then some men came in and chopped the wolf’s head off and cut his tummy open to get Grandma out again. I didn’t stay but I think Grandma was pretty upset. Her mother smiled, showing her teeth, and told her it was time for bed.
Was that what really happened? Maybe, maybe not, she wasn’t sure. But it was a way of remembering it, even if it was perhaps not the best way to remember poor Grandma (that nose!), though Grandma was dying or was already dead, so it didn’t really matter. She crawled into her bed, a place not so friendly as once it was, but first she touched her bedstead, the book beside it (Grandma gave it to her), her pillow, doll, felt the floorboards under her feet, convincing herself
of the reality of all that, because some things today had caused her doubt. No sooner had her feet left the floor, however, than there was nothing left of that sensation except her memory of it, and that, she knew, would soon be gone, and the memory of her grandmother, too, and some day the memory of her, and she knew then that her grandmother’s warning about the way she looked at things had come too late.
STICK MAN
(2005)
The Stick Man is gazing out upon the horizon. Wistfully perhaps, it’s hard to be certain. Even he is not sure what he is feeling or ought to be feeling. The horizon is a mere line, but as always he fills it in with a landscape of his imagination. He does this simply by announcing it: e.g., the Stick Man is standing in the Garden of Paradise. And, with that, so he is. This is usually rewarding and satisfies him. He lives a rich and complex life and is rarely not satisfied. Today, however, the Garden of Paradise seems a bit tatty. Trampled. Gone to seed.
Perhaps he has been too long inactive. Standing limbs akimbo in the same place inventing landscapes. Straightening up from time to time when pleased or displeased with his mental transformations of the horizon line, otherwise motionless. So he puts himself through some exercises. He lifts his stick hands above his head. He bends over and touches the ends of his stick feet. He squats. He sits. He lies down. That’s better. He lies there for awhile on the featureless plain, inventing activities appropriate to this position. The Stick Man meditates on the ontology of being. The Stick Man digests. The Stick Man gazes at the stars (it is night now). The Stick Man watches the clouds roll by, changing their shapes (it is day). The Stick Man waits in vain for a revelation to descend. The Stick Man wonders if he can get up again. The Stick Man attempts a sit-up. Abandons it. The Stick Man rests.
It is in the prone position that he has his best ideas, and his idea now is to make love to the Stick Woman. He often does this when he’s feeling a bit low or his imagination goes flat. To have the idea is to bring her to his side. She is identical to him in every way—the same empty circle for a head, the same straight spine, crossed by a shoulder bar and a hip bar at the base, with the four trisected limbs hanging off the bar ends—except that she has a notch in the bottom of the hip bar where he has a tab, which is something like a comma except when making love. Even then, actually. A thing of naught. The Stick Woman calls it his tendril. Always hopeful. When their sticks are heaped together, they make a pretty picture, as of secret hieroglyphs.
After making love, he does feel better and he thanks the Stick Woman for it, but his creative appetite remains unaroused. The Stick Man reinvents the universe, he announces. But in fact he continues to lie there in the inert postcoital position. Perhaps he should visit the human world again. The Stick Woman reminds him that in the past these visits have not been very successful. That’s right, he had forgotten. Or, rather, he had not forgotten, but he had not wanted to remember. No, he tells the Stick Woman, they have not, but they give me fresh ideas. Help me get up.
The horizon line has vanished and all visible space in all possible directions is filled with human activity. The Stick Man is standing in the middle of it, more or less erect, his limbs slightly akimbo: he wants to appear relaxed. But he is not relaxed and anyone can see that. He looks desperately out of place and all too aware that he looks out of place. These humans would look out of place in his stick world, too, he knows that, but they are not in his world, nor are they likely to go there; he is in their world. Where he is unwanted. He remembers now that the last time he was here they tried to dismantle him and use his head for a manhole cover. People are uncomfortable around someone without facial features of any kind. Not to mention someone without clothing, however simple and innocent may be his poor figure. On this occasion, a crowd gathers around him, pointing and staring. They do not seem hostile. Or merely hostile. They seem prepared to give him a chance. But a chance at what? Perhaps they think he is a street performer. In order to try to please them, he does a little dance. It is a very elaborate dance, as he thinks of it, balletic and energetic (e.g., the Stick Man attempts a flying pas de chat), but to the humans it probably appears that he is standing still. At most, twitching slightly. They grow restless. Someone speaks of building a bonfire and cigarette lighters are produced. Humans are a hard lot. The Stick Man is standing in the Garden of Paradise, he announces resolutely; it worked before, more or less, but it doesn’t work now. He’s in the wrong world. And it’s closing in on him. The Stick Man runs like a bat out of hell, he announces, but that doesn’t work either. His knees bend slightly. More in dismay probably than in flight.
Just when all seems lost, a Cartoon Man flies in from overhead and the humans fall back. Leave him alone, you racist assholes, the Cartoon Man shouts, or prepare to die! He looks rather out of place, too, with his bright colored body suit and sketchy features, and he seems anything but threatening, even somewhat undersized, they could probably tear him apart, but they do as they are told. Maybe it’s the surprise factor. Or maybe it’s the intimidating way the Cartoon Man speaks, as if in capitals and bold type like a billboard. It’s okay now, he says to the Stick Man, lowering his booming voice. Let’s go throw back a snort.
In the bar, they are drinking and telling each other their life stories. The Cartoon Man is soaking up glass after glass of whiskey, with beer chasers. I can’t get enough of this swill, he says, pouring another glassful down his cartoon gullet. Not that it does much for me, he adds with a belch so powerful it makes the bottles tinkle on the shelves behind the bar. I seem to have a hard time getting a buzz on, but when I do, boy, watch out! The Stick Man is not actually having a drink in human terms, because they won’t serve him. The Cartoon Man made a loud fuss about this, springing up and down so he could see over the bar, banging his fist on it as he leapt and speaking in huge jagged capitals, but the Stick Man told him not to bother, he prefers having a drink his own Stick Man way. To demonstrate this, he bends one arm at the elbow and holds his stick hand near his tipped “O” of a head, and announces: The Stick Man tastes a glass of wine. He makes a scuffing noise, which might be the sound of him sniffing or that of his knees brushing together. Hmm, he says. Complex bouquet of black currant, green olive, and cedarwood, faintly herbaceous, reminiscent of bell peppers. Promising. He tips his head back; the movement is almost imperceptible. Harmonious flavors, deep and long-lasting, with a noble balance of fruit, alcohol, tannin, and acid. It’s a classic from the best vintage of the decade. Beautiful. And it’s opening up nicely. I think I’ll have another. And he does.
That’s pretty good, says the Cartoon Man. Me, I couldn’t tell a bell pepper from a stale armpit. We’re not very big on taste and smell in the cartoon world. Mostly we’re into low comedy and killing people. A lot of people. Fighting evil, man, it’s fucking endless. He shakes his cartoon head sadly, his eyes and nose seeming to move about on his face as he does so, and throws down another tumbler of whiskey. The Stick Man thinks about evil. Perhaps for the first time. He realizes it has caused him to bend over slightly as if he has taken up a sack of potatoes. But tell me, Stick Man, what brings you to this shapeless shithole? These humans’ll snuff you, you know. You’re a fucking insult to their world.
I come to watch them, and when I see them do something interesting, I remember it and take it back to my stick world and do it there. In truth, I can’t imagine my own world except in relation to theirs, though of course mine’s superior. To walk on water or fall off a building is not the same in my world as it is here. There’s so little in my world, there’s room for everything, all I have to do is think of it, but theirs is so cluttered and congested, and, well, so obvious. In your face, as they like to say. If you have one, that is.
Yeah, I know what you mean, Stick Man, this bloated meat farm dumps a streamlined heavy action guy like me straight into snore mode. Five minutes and out come the Z’s. A bore to the core, show me the door. Don’t know why they love it so. Just goddamn stupid, I guess. It’s not like where I come from. We got the best of their wor
ld in ours, all the sex and violence, tears and laughter, but speeded up with none of the dull sweaty bits. The Stick Man disagrees with this, the cartoon world just makes the obvious more obvious, painting it, as one might say, in primary colors, but out of politeness does not say so. He tilts his shoulder bar in sympathy, though perhaps a little too far. The Stick Man expresses empathy should perhaps read: The Stick Man expresses inebriation. Shouldn’t have had that second one. No tolerance. Delicious, though. Listen, come on back with me to my strip, Stick Man. We’ll go on a toot, tear up the fucking frame. I got a set of wheels you won’t believe. We’ll pick up some hot dames. I know a couple of doozies who’ll blow your pants off. Loosely speaking, I mean.
Thanks. But I’ve been there. I get treated as a handicapped person. Or else I’m just laughed at.
I know, it’s that kind of place, they’ll laugh at anything, they can’t help themselves. But, hey, this time you’ll be with me, man. I’m a superhero, they don’t mess with me. I catch anyone even smirking, he’s a dead man. Or woman. I’m evenhanded on that score. Whaddaya say?
It’s very kind. But, well, I have a doozie back in the stick world, and I miss her. Maybe that’s what he’s expressing in his drunken tilt: the Stick Man remembers his absent lover. The tilt deepens. But you could come with me to the stick world.
Nah. Too square for me. So goddamn flat and colorless. Whaddaya got? A straight line and a few sticks to play with. No wonder you come slumming here. Mix it up with a little push and shove, get your feet in the paint, pick up the tempo for a change. Must be a drag to hang out in all that emptiness for long.
No. Not for stick people. It’s exciting, really. It’s got everything. For it’s always just what we imagine it to be.
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