Then he raised the chunk of steel.
“Nobody, absolutely nobody,” he said, holding the huge .45 up to his face, “has the guts to shoot himself through the eye.”
He laid the hollow bore of the great blocky weapon against his closed eyelid and continued speaking, still softly. “Through the head, yeah sure, anybody. Or the guys with balls can point it up through the mouth. But through the eye, nobody, but nobody.” Then he pulled the trigger just as they had taught him in the Army; smoothly, evenly, in one movement.
From the other room came the murmur of breathing, heavily, stertorously, evenly.
Ted Sturgeon has said some strange things about this story in the Introduction to this book. He has said it is hallucinogenic in tone. He may be right, I don’t know. I wrote it as a straight attempt at mysticism. But the style was experimental, as well. I employed a Baroque, even rococo approach. I wanted a density of images, a veritable darkness of language, comparable in narrative to what saxophonist John Coltrane blows in his “sheets of sound” style. That is, a laying on thickly of impressions, one atop another, like the scales of an armadillo. It was published in Knight, and it is the one time an editor snipped something out of it. Without my knowledge. Now, it is in its original version, and I think I see what Ted meant. It strikes me as a weird story, and I’ve never done anything quite like it, before or since. But as for the whole acid–head bag—and by relation, pot and peyote and hash and mescalin and pill–dropping of all kinds—Ted’s reportage of my attitude was precisely correct. Why should I clown around with all the artificial scenes when I’ve been on a continual high since the day I was born. I’ll take my first fix or sugar cube when I come down, troops, but that may be a long way off if it is possible for me, unjugged, to write things like
DELUSION FOR A DRAGON SLAYER
This is true:
Chano Puzo, the incredibly talented conga drummer of the bop ‘40’s, was inexplicably shot and killed by a beautiful Negress in the Rio Cafe, a Harlem bar, on December 2nd, 1948.
Dick Bong, pilot of a P–38 “Lightning” in World War Two, America’s “Ace of Aces” with forty Japanese kills to his credit, who came through the hellfire of war unscratched, perished by accident when the jet engine of a Lockheed P–80 he was test–flying “flamed–out” and quit immediately after takeoff, August 7th, 1945. There was no reason for the mechanical failure, no reason for Bong to have died.
Marilyn Monroe, an extremely attractive young woman who had only recently begun to realize she possessed an acting ability far beyond that of “sex symbol” tagged on her early in her career, on a timeless and dateless day in 1962, left this life as a result of accidentally swallowing too many barbiturates. Despite lurid conjecture to the contrary, the evidence that she had been trying to phone someone for help as the tragedy coursed through her system, remains inescapable. It was an accident.
William Bolitho, one of the most incisive and miraculously talented commenters on society and its phychological motivations, whose “Murder For Profit” revolutionized psychiatric and penological attitudes toward the mentalities of mass–murderers, died suddenly—and again, tragically—in June of 1930, in a hospital in Avignon, victim of the mistaken judgment of an obscure French physician who let a simple case of appendicitis drop into peritonitis.
True.
Each of these four random deaths plucked from a staggering and nearly–endless compendium of “accidental tragedies” have one thing in common. With each other, and with the death of Warren Glazer Griffin. None of them should have happened. Each of them was “out–of–joint” with time and the continuity of the life in point. Each of them catches the breath, boggles the mind. Each of them could have been avoided, yet none of them could have been avoided. For each of them was pre–ordained. Not in the ethereal, mystic, supernatural flummery of the Kismet–believers, but in the complex rhythmic predestination of those who have been whisked out of their own world, into the mist–centuries of their dreams.
For Chano Puzo, it was a dark and smiling woman of mystery.
For Dick Bong, a winged Fury sent to find only him.
For Marilyn Monroe, a handful of white chalk pills.
For Bolitho, an inept quack forever doomed to apologies.
And for Warren Glazer Griffin, a forty–one year old accountant who, despite his advanced age, was still troubled by acne, and who never ventured further from his own world than Tenafly, New Jersey on a visit to relatives one June in 1959, it was a singular death ground to pulp between the triple–fanged rows of teeth in the mouth of a seventy–eight foot dragon, in a Land That Never Existed.
Wherein lies a biography, an historical footnote, a cautionary tale, and a keynote to the meaning of life.
Or, as Goethe summed it:
“Know thyself? If I knew myself, I’d run away.”
The giant black “headache ball” of the wreckers struck the shell of a wall, and amid geysers of dust and powder and lath and plaster and brick and decayed wood, the third storey of the condemned office building crumbled, shivered along its width and imploded, plunging in upon itself, dumping jigsaw pieces into the hollow structure. The sound was a cannonade in the early–morning eight–o’clock street.
Forty years before, an obscure billionaire named Rouse, who had maintained a penthouse love–nest in the office building, in an unfashionable section of the city even then, had caused to be installed a private gas line to the kitchen of the flat; he was a lover of money, a lover of women, and a lover of flaming desserts. A private gas line. Gas company records of this installation had been either lost, destroyed, or—as seems more likely—carefully edited to exclude mention of the line. Graft, as well as bootlegging, had aided Rouse in his climb to that penthouse. The wreckers knew nothing of the gas line, which had long–since gone to disuse and the turnoff of a small valve on the third floor, which had originally jetted the vapor to the upper floor. Having no knowledge of the line, and having cleared all safety precautions with the city gas company as to existing installations, the wreckers hurled their destructive attentions at the third storey with assurance…
Warren Glazer Griffin left his home at precisely seven forty–five every weekday except Thursday (on which day he left at eight o’clock, to collect billing ledgers from his firm’s other office, further downtown; an office which did not open till 8:15 weekdays). This was Thursday. He had run out of razor blades. That simple. He had had to pry a used blade out of the disposal niche in the blade container, and it had taken him ten minutes extra. He hurried and managed to leave the apartment house at 8:06 A.M. His routine was altered for the first time in seventeen years. That simple. Hurrying down the block to the Avenue, turning right and hesitating, realizing he could not make up the lost minutes by merely trotting (and without even recognizing the subliminal panic that gripped him at being off–schedule), he dashed across the Avenue, and cut through the little service alley running between the shopping mart, still closed, and the condemned office building with its high board fence constructed of thick doors from now–demolished offices…
U.S. WEATHER BUREAU FORECAST: partly cloudy today with a few scattered showers. Sunny and slightly warmer tomorrow (Friday). Gusty winds. High today 62. High Friday 60, low 43. Relative humidity…
Forty years past, a billionaire named Rouse.
A desire for flaming desserts.
A forgotten gas main.
A struggle for a used razor blade.
A short cut through an alley.
Gusty winds…
The “headache ball” plunged once more into the third storey, struck the bottled–up pressure valve; the entire side of the building erupted skyward on a spark struck by two bricks scratching together, ripping the massive iron sphere from its cable. The ball rose, arced, and borne on an unusually heavy wind, plummeted over the restraining board fence. It landed with a deafening crash in the alley.
Directly on the unsuspecting person of Warren Glazer Griffin, crushing him to little more
than pulp, burying him eleven feet through cement and dirt and loam. Every building in the neighborhood shuddered at the impact.
And in several moments, cemetery silence fell once more in the chilly, eight–o–clock morning streets.
A soft, theremin humming, in little circles of sound, from all around him: the air was alive with multi–colored whispers of delight.
He opened his eyes and realized he was lying on the yellow–wood, highly–polished deck of a sailing vessel; to his left he could see beneath the rail a sea of purest vermillion, washing in thin lines of black and color, away behind the ship. Above him the silk and crystal sails billowed in the breeze, and tiny spheres of many–colored light kept pace with the vessel, as though they were lightning–bugs, sent to run convoy. He tried to stand up, and found it was not difficult: except he was now six feet three inches in height, not five foot seven.
Griffin looked down the length of his body, and for a suspended instant of eye–widening timelessness, he felt vertiginous. It was total displacement of ego. He was himself, and another himself entirely. He looked down, expecting to see a curved, pot–bellied and pimpled body he had worn for a very long time, but instead saw someone else, standing down below him, where he should have been. Oh my God, thought Warren Glazer Griffin, I’m not me.
The body that extended down to the polished deck was a fine instrument. Composed of the finest bronzed skin–tone, the most sculptured anthracite–hard musculature, proportions just the tiniest bit exaggerated, he was lovely and god–like, extremely god–like. Turning slowly, he caught his reflection in the burnished smoothness of a warrior’s bronze shield, hung on a peg at the side of the forecastle. He was Nordic blond, aquiline–nosed, steely–blue–eyed. No one can be that Aryan, was his only thought, flushed with amazement, as he saw the new face molded to the front of his head.
He felt the hilt of the sword warm against his side.
He pulled it free of its scabbard, and stared in fascination at the face of the old, gnarled marmoset–eyed wizard whose countenance was an intaglio of pitted metal and jewels and sandblast–black briar, there engraved in hard relief on the handle. The face smiled gently at him.
“What it is all about, is this,” the wizard said softly, so that not even the sea–birds careening overdecks would hear. “This is Heaven. But let me explain.” Griffin had not considered an interruption. He was silent and struck dumb. “Heaven is what you mix all the days of your life, but you call it dreams. You have one chance to buy your Heaven with all the intents and ethics of your life. That is why everyone considers Heaven such a lovely place. Because it is dreams, special dreams, in which you exist. What you have to do is live up to them.”
“I—” started Griffin, but the wizard cut him off with a rapid blinking of his strange eyes.
“No, listen, please, because after this, all the magic stops, and you have to do it alone.
“You create your own Heaven, and you have the opportunity to live in it, but you have to do it on your own terms, the highest terms of which you are capable. So sail this ship through the straits, navigate the shoals, find the island, overcome the foam–devil that guards the girl, win her love, and you’ve played the game on your own terms.”
Then the wizard’s face settled back into immobility, and Warren Glazer Griffin sat down heavily on the planking of the forecastle, mouth agape, eyes wide, and the realization of it all fixed firmly—unbelievably, but firmly—in his head.
Gee whiz, thought Griffin.
The sound of rigging shrieking like terns brought him out of his middle–class stupor, and he realized the keel of the strange and wonderful wind–vessel was coming about. The steady beatbeatbeat of pole–oars against mirror waters rose to meet the descending hum of a dying breeze, and the ship moved across reflective waters toward a mile–high breaker that abruptly rose out of the sea.
Griffin realized it had not leapt from the sea–bottom, as his first impression seemed to be, but had gradually grown on the horizon, some moments after the watch in the nest had halloo’d its imminent appearance. Yet he had not heard any such gardyloo; he was surfeited with thoughts of this other body, the golden god with the incredibly handsome face.
“Cap’n,” said one of the hands, lumbering with sea legs toward him. “We’re hard on the straits. Most of the men’re shackled a’ready.”
Griffin nodded silently, turned to follow the seaman. They moved back toward the lazzarette, and the seaman opened the hatch, dropped through. Griffin followed close behind him, and in the smallish compartment found the other sea–hands shackled wrists and ankles to the inner keel of the hold. He was gagged for a moment by the overpowering stench of salted bully–beef and fish, a sickly bittersweet smell that made his eyes smart with its intensity.
Then he moved to the seaman, who had already fastened his own ankle–shackles, and one wrist–manacle. He clapped the rusting manacle still undone, and now all the hands of the wind–vessel were locked immobile.
“Good luck, Cap’n,” smiled the last seaman. And he winked. The other men joined in, in their own ways, with a dozen different accents, some in languages Griffin could not even begin to place. But all well–wishing. Griffin once more nodded in the strong, silent manner of someone other than himself, someone to the rank born.
Then he climbed out of the lazzarette and went aft to the wheel.
Overhead, the sky had darkened to a shining blackness, a patent leather black that would have sent back inverted reflections, had there been anything soaring close enough to the sky to reflect. In the mote–dancing waters of the ocean, a ghost ship sailed along upside–down, hull–to–hull with Griffin’s vessel. And above him the quaint and tittering globes of light ricocheted and multiplied, filling the sudden night with the incense of their vibrancy. Their colors began to blend, to merge, to run down the sky in washes of color that made Griffin smile, and blink and drop his mouth open with awe. It was all the fireworks of another universe, just once hurled into an onyx sky, left to burn away whatever life was possible. Yet that was merely beginning:
The colors came. As he set his feet squarely, and the deltoids bunched furiously beneath his golden skin, the two men who were Warren Glazer Griffin began the complex water slalom that would send the vessel through the straits, past the shoals, and into the cove that lay beyond. And the colors came. The vessel tacked before the wind, which seemed to gather itself and enter in an arrowed spear pointed direction of unity, behind the massive sails. The wind was with him, sending him straight for the break in the heartless stone barrier. Out the colors game.
Softly at first, humming, creeping, boiling up from nowhere at the horizon line; twisting and surging like snake whirlwinds with adolescent intent; building, spiraling, climbing in vague streamers and tendrils of unconsciousness, the colors came.
In a rising, keening spiral of hysteria they came, first pulsing in primaries, then secondaries, the comminglings and off–shades, and finally in colors that had no names. Colors like racing, and pungent, and far seen shadows, and bitterness, and something that hurt, and something that pleasured. Oh, mostly the pleasures, one after another, singing, lulling, hypnotically arresting the eye as the ship sped into the heart of the maelstrom of weird, advancing, sky–eating colors. The siren colors of the straits. The colors that came from the air and the island and the world itself, which hushed and hurried across the world to here, to meet when they were needed, to stop the seamen who slid over the waves to the break in the breakwall. The colors, defense, that sent men to the bottom, their hearts bursting with songs of color and charm. The colors that top–filled a man to the brim and kept him poised there with a surface tension of joy and wonder, colors cascading like waterfalls of flowers in his head, millioncolors, blossomshades, brightnesses, joycrashing everythings that made a man hurl back and strain his throat to sing sing, sing chants of amazement and forever—
—as his ship plunged like a cannonball into the reefs and shattered into a billion wooden fragments
, tiny splinters of dark wood against the boiling treacherous sea, and the rocks crushed and staved in the sides, and men’s heads went to pulp as they hurtled forward and their vessel was cut out from under them, the colors the colors, the God beautiful colors!
As Griffin sang his song of triumph, the men with eyes clapped tightshut, belowdecks, saved from berserking, depending on this golden giant of a man who was their own personal this–trip God, who would bring them through the hole in the faceless evil rocks.
Griffin, singing!
Griffin, golden god from Manhattan!
Griffin, man of two skins, Chinese puzzle man within man, hands cross–locked over the wood of the wheel, tacking points this way, points that way, playing compass and swashbuckler with the deadly colors that lapped at his senses, filled his eyes with delight, clogged his nostrils with the scents of glory, all the tiny theremin hummings now merged, all the little color–motes now united, running in slippery washes down and down the sky as he hurried the vessel toward the rocks and then in one sweep as he spun spun spun the wheel two handed across, whip whip whip, and through into the bubbling white water, with rock–teeth screeching old women along the hull of his vessel, and tearing gouged gashes of darker deepness along the planking, but through!
Griffin, who chuckled with merriment at his grandeur, his stature, his chance taking, who had risked the lives of all his men for the moment of forever to be gained on that island. And winning! Making his wager with eternity, and winning—for an instant, before the great ship struck the buried reefs, and tore away the bottom of the ship, and the lazzarette filled in an instant, and his men who trusted him not to gamble them away so cheaply, wailed till their screams became water–logged, and were gone, and Griffin felt himself lifted, tossed, hurled, flung like a bit of suet and the thought that invaded, consumed, gnawed him in rage and frustration: that he had defeated the siren colors, had gotten through the treacherous straits, but had lost his men, his ship, even himself, by the treachery of his own self–esteem: that he had gloated over his wonderousness, and vanity had sent him whipping further inshore, to be dashed on reefs; and the bitterness welled in him as he struck the water with a paralyzing crash, and sank immediately beneath the boiling white–faced waves.
I Have No Mouth & I Must Scream Page 11