Eyeheart Everything (Second Edition)

by Mykle Hansen

  She’s taking my pulse, she’s telling the crowd she needs some rags, some clothing to tear into strips. And all the naked people look sheepishly around them, and someone has a tiny nylon sash which she says is no help at all, and someone else has a red feather boa, and that’s about it for the clothing options in the immediate vicinity. So she rips off my t-shirt — my orange hunting t-shirt with the reflective strips on it, that you can see from ten blocks away, which I actually did see once from ten blocks away, in a store window, and was able to reduce my speed and pull into the parking lot of the hunters’ supply store and purchase it for twenty bucks, which was a lot of money at the time, years ago when I was unemployed, and then I realize that I’m actually kind of pissed off now. Who is this EMT-smoking weirdo who wants to destroy my favorite shirt, the one you can see from far away, that one I bought because I wanted to be struck by lightning, not that I felt like it really would improve my chances, but I just had this feeling that in my quest to be struck by lightning, I should get that shirt, and sure enough, wearing that very t-shirt, which is the only item of clothing I have that I actually bother to get dry-cleaned, that I was actually struck not by lightning, but by God, which is the same basic thing, and that this T-shirt was a valuable tool for human enlightenment, and how short-sighted and ignorant it was of her to want to rip it up and use it just to stem my bleeding.

  I tried to say, I’m okay, let me bleed, but she kept going and I couldn’t speak. She said Wiggle your toes, and I wiggled my toes, and she said, Can you hear me, wiggle your toes if you can hear me, so I wiggled them some more, and she said, Are you wiggling, and God she was irritating, I mean, I’m playing along here, but don’t expect me to show much enthusiasm for this interruption of my trip. And then I realized: that it was over, and the feeling I had a moment ago wouldn’t last, and now I was worrying about my shirt, and my bleeding and my toes, and Tony, who I still hadn’t seen, and my bag, and my water bottle and everything was going to be a big drag from here on out. And I heard a helicopter, in the distance, then coming closer, and then a huge strong wind rose up and blew dust into my eyes, as the lady who was on EMT explained that they were going to take me to a hospital in Reno, and that I would be fine, when in fact I had been fine and now I was going to be in Reno instead ... but oh well. Say goodbye to God, I thought, and I began to cry a little as I noticed the feeling in my body was becoming a little too strong for my liking. And then some men came and put me on a thing, and the thing was carried over to the helicopter, and one more time I looked into the faces of a huge assembled throng of naked, silent, confused people whose eyes you couldn’t ever see and who stuck metal bits into themselves, and I knew they were worried too.

  And just before they shut the helicopter door and air-lifted me away from my dream, I saw on the corner of the clearing a huge mass of twisted rods, uncoiled ropes, fire retardant sprayed over smoking retarded fires, sashes, wires, engine oil, latex, steam, grass, sticks, wood, cloth, and on one knee beside it was the man I has seen who rode it on towards me, back when it was whole, and I tried to wave to him, I wanted him to come closer so I could thank him, but instead he stayed there, bent and weeping over the wreck of the indescribable thing.

  DANGER!

  In order to save you from yourself, we have labeled this large red button. It reads: DO NOT PUSH. Please, do not push the large red button. Every time you push the button, someone you don’t know who lives far away will die, or maybe you will get some candy. BUTTON WARNING! Don’t push it. There will be a bright flash and a loud noise, and the boredom you are so goddamn sick of will vanish, replaced by something graphic and life-altering and loud. EXPLOSIVE DECOMPRESSION DANGER. If you twist the red handle, everybody will be killed — and in a fascinating way, too. They will all be extruded through this tiny airplane window like so much human pasta. There’s no alarm on this red handle, and no fail-safe. Is the handle hard to twist? Is it oiled regularly, or does it stick? Don’t find out. DANGER! DO NOT LICK THE EXPOSED WIRES! We have exposed them for you to look at. They’re really very pretty, don’t you think? Look very closely. Bring your tongue just a few inches shy of the blistering mark, but DO NOT lick the exposed wires. Look at the shiny wires, then at the bold, courageous sign. Which one will you choose? It’s a big decision.

  SCHOOL CROSSING. You weren’t even thinking about it. Nope, you weren’t even considering straightening that knee and bearing down hard on the accelerator. Thump. Thump. Oh no, not you. DO NOT THINK WHAT WE KNOW YOU MUST BE THINKING. Don’t blame us for putting the thought in your head. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES THROW THINGS FROM THE TOP OF THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING. They will only get lodged in someone’s bloody brain. Isn’t that interesting? You don’t want to do such interesting, hideous, easy-to-do things. Do you?

  You don’t want to suffer SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE, do you? You wouldn’t want to brave a RADIATION DANGER. You are FRAGILE. You have MOVING PARTS. Smoking will kill you, but SMOKING NEAR THE PUMPS might kill you. Care to test your luck? Please don’t, even though you will probably live and it will show them just how brave you are.

  HANGING FROM, PLAYING WITH OR USING THIS TOWEL DISPENSER IN A MANNER OTHER THAN AS ILLUSTRATED MAY CAUSE SEVERE INJURY OR DEATH. Got that? DEATH. Study the diagram carefully. One false move and you’re snuffed! But what if you don’t dry your hands? ELECTROCUTION HAZARD, that’s what.

  The world is a minefield. Mine is the voice that will guide you through. But you must obey. NO PARKING NORTH OF HERE. Everything is a trap. Everything is very dangerous, people don’t realize that. CURB WHEELS. The tigers are gone, but there are toasters everywhere, with metal forks lying beside them. Christmas tree lights. Cars. NARROW BRIDGE. We have technology and power and raw materials. DO NOT INHALE. We can make you all the rope you ever wanted. Miles and miles of supple, brightly striated hemp rope, exceptionally strong. DANGER: ROPE HAZARD. Enough rope to hang yourself, your family, Mom, Dad, the dog, your boss, all your ex-girlfriends, the President and the Vice-President and everybody who ever did anything to hurt you, and all your friends, and a million starving Africans who never got the chance to do anything to anybody you’ve ever even heard of. Please, don’t do it. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

  Pang

  Hey! I am Pang. I planted those tulips. No, those there, yes. This is my favorite month of the spring. So far! Ha! Look at that color! Someday I think they will create a perfectly blue tulip, and then my palette will be complete. See that row, the breech of white there in front, four or five young ones bowing. That’s a wave breaking on a gravel beach. Can you see it? Stand here. Now? Ha! There’s a red boat over there, a sailboat. There’s no tulip that looks like a sail, I know, but see the red hull? See the yellow nest on the green mast? It’s calm out there, but deadly. All over here — come, look — see these? Wreckage. This is Crete. I sailed there myself. I was blown out to sea off the Taiwan shore when I was nine or ten. The Greeks found me, took me aboard. I’m a Greek sailor. Chinese, I can’t even say it anymore. “Sang,” that’s mother. I never saw her again. She had a garden, though, I’ll never forget it. See these circles, they draw a ring around this point. Over here — here is where you stand. Anywhere is okay, but here is best. Here the tulips salute you. Good morning, gentlemen ... Look! Over there! That sonovabitch has to go. That’s not mine, how did that get in? Too small to save ... here, have a flower. I have a pin, where ... ah. Hold still. Please, it’s for you. You see, I have too many! Ha! Now you are a young bachelor — the Greek girls won’t leave you alone if you go to Crete.

  The Oranges of Mr. Shark

  My friend the great white shark is poorly socialized. He was born with the instincts of his ancestors, and his motivations are to hunt, kill, and eat other creatures. He is honest about this, and eloquent, but underneath it all, he is a shark’s shark. Other creatures don’t trust him. Even his family keeps him at a fin’s length.

  He might better be described as my acquaintance. We drink coffee at the same café down by the shore, the one where the waiters al
l wear striped pantaloons and the drinks come in little cups shaped like dogs and cats. We sip out coffee, and talk about this and that. He is funny, well-spoken and always immaculately dressed. Sometimes he is a bit forward.

  “I’m very lonely,” he confided one day. “I’ve tried to find a companion. I’ve gone out to the nicest restaurants with the nicest people, but it seems that whenever things start to go well, and I begin to relax, the whole killing and eating thing gets in the way. I can’t help it, it’s just my nature.” My friend the shark frowned a huge, toothy frown. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, and he sipped at a cat’s head full of mocha.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Gee. Well.”

  “I’m not a bad creature,” he said, running his tongue around the edge of the mug, “I’m just constantly hungry.” A modicum of saliva gathered on his lip.

  “Gee,” I said, as he looked at me with a hungry eye, “that’s too bad.”

  “Anyway,” he said, “one ought to look on the bright side of things. Today the weather is beautiful, and I’m going for a swim. Why don’t you hop on in and join me?”

  “No no,” I said, “I don’t really, umm, feel up to it.”

  “Oh well ... then I’ll see you later,” said the shark, as he dove into the water and swam away.

  I told the story of the shark’s troubles to my friend Phil. Phil considers himself something of a matchmaker, and claims that he is personally responsible for no less than ten marriages in this city, some lasting years.

  “Listen,” he said, running his long, thin fingers through his long, thin beard. “I know this lovely sack of oranges.”

  “A sack of oranges?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “a five-pound bag. Maybe we should introduce them.”

  “Fix them up, you mean?”

  “Well yes, to put it crudely. Acquaint them with one another.”

  “But ... what would they have to talk about?”

  “They wouldn’t have to,” said Phil with a gleam in his glass eye. “You say your friend was born to eat things, yes? And a sack of oranges wants to be eaten.”

  I told him that struck me as an unrealistic priority.

  “Not at all, it makes sense. It’s part of the evolutionary strategy of a tree. The tree can’t walk, but it knows how to make these delicious oranges. An animal eats an orange, and then it walks on. The seeds of the orange pass through the tubes of the animal, and are deposited miles away in a fresh mound of fertilizer. There another tree grows. In this way, trees see the world.”

  “That sounds very unromantic,” I said. “And I don’t know if Mr. Shark is looking for that kind of a commitment just yet. And orchards don’t thrive in salt water, et cetera.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Phil. “She’s seedless.”

  I didn’t see either Phil or Mr. Shark for about a month because I became unexpectedly rolled up in a romance of my own, a brief fling with this amazing pack of Dutch cigarettes I met at a party in the waffle house district. It was a fun, sexy, shallow, cheap and expensive affair, which ended happily but finally when she boarded a plane for Omsk, there to narrate a trilingual documentary about poststructuralism in dikes. When next I sauntered down to the seaside café, I was still bubbling over with silly romantic notions. Mr. Shark, resplendent in a white tuxedo, sat at the piano and picked at a lonesome tune with an adroit, melancholy fin. The piano top was lined with a row of empty cat heads, a candelabra and a mostly-eaten tray of celery and hummus.

  “Ciao, Señor Shark,” I greeted him. “How are you this fine evening, when the sky is so full of luxurious stars?”

  “I am as blue as the sky is dark,” he sighed, “and as dark as it is blue. Listen, here is my new song:

  Oh, the shark has

  pretty teeth, dear,

  And he keeps them

  to himself,

  If you meet him,

  always greet him,

  And inquire

  about his health.

  He is lonely,

  he is gentle,

  He admires

  the sea and sky.

  If you date him,

  he’ll devour you,

  Otherwise, he’s

  a swimmin’ guy.

  An appreciative old man sitting nearby clapped politely, and my friend gave one of his distinctive little bows of thanks.

  “I think I can turn your frown around, Mr. Shark. I know of a certain young lady with whom you really ought to spend some time.”

  “No, no, thank you but no. I had another fiasco two nights ago, and it’s given me a lot to think about. I’m through with the singles scene.”

  “A fiasco? Another bad date?”

  “Indeed. A lovely girl, Martha, a harp seal I met in Monterrey while I was exercising with some surfer friends. She was beautiful, smart, possessed of delicate and sensual fur and deep, haunting eyes. Involved in a number of progressive community programs. Played the sitar. I rescued her from a furrier and she insisted on making me dinner.”

  “So, what happened?”

  The shark gazed aside in shame, and then he slowly rolled back his vast rubbery lips. Between rows of glinting teeth I spied a few reddened flecks of fur. His breath stank unmistakably of hats. I shuddered.

  “Well ...” I remarked, “hmm.”

  “So you see — here, have a carrot stick. You see what always happens? I feel terrible about the whole thing. And I’ve given it a lot of thought ... and I’ve decided to become a vegetarian.”

  “A vegetarian — you? Will you still eat fish?”

  “Oh yes, of course, and probably a little chicken. But that’s it. I am resigned to a life of platonic solitude, comforted by the knowledge that I am easing the suffering of others.” And although he was too poised and noble a character to show it, I knew his sadness was a deep and painful one.

  “Listen ... hear me out. I think I know just the inauguration for your new life. I really think you should meet this sack of oranges I know.”

  “Oh no, please, don’t let me ruin this as well.”

  “Hear me out! She’s a sack of oranges, she’s from Florida. A wonderful, warm personality, very sweet and caring. She’s just moved here, and wants to meet people.”

  “Ah,” my friend said. “I don’t date unsightly women.”

  “No, really, she’s drop-dead gorgeous! Voluptuous, loaded with curves! And I have a feeling she’d be very understanding about your, um, your condition.”

  Mr. Shark was quiet and thoughtful for a few moments. Then a nearby waiter tripped over his pantaloons and spilled a tray of glasses. After general applause, our conversation turned to other subjects and regained its usual levity. An hour later I knew I had him hooked.

  By that time, Phil had worked a similar line of salesmanship on the sack of oranges. Mr. Shark called her one evening, they chatted for a while and agreed to let us broker them a date. But on the scheduled evening of the introduction Phil developed a sudden previous engagement, so I became saddled with the job of picking up Ms. Oranges at her apartment in town and dropping her off with Mr. Shark at the café. As I rode through the park on my bicycle, I grew less and less comfortable with the whole project. Why do I always try to intervene in the lives of people I hardly know? If things turn out badly, will they both hold it against me?

  I arrived at the apartment and knocked on the door. “Come on in,” a soft voice called, “I’m just getting dressed.” I crept in. A moment later she appeared in the hallway, lit from above by a fluorescent plant light.

  She was drop-dead gorgeous. And voluptuous. And loaded with curves. She was wearing one of those orange plastic fish-net stretch bags, and it left nothing to the imagination.

  Yes, she sure was a sack of oranges.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Wow,” I half-stammered, “you look great! Really ... great!”

  “Oh, you’re sweet,” she said. For a sack of oranges she sure had a beautiful voice. I felt a small, not uncomfortable grumble in m
y colon.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” she asked. “You look hungry.”

  She smiled in a way I’ve never before been smiled at by a sack of oranges.

  “We should go,” I said. And I tucked her in my backpack.

  “Hee hee,” she said, “that tickles!”

  “Mr. Shark, this is Ms. Oranges. Ms. Oranges, this is Mr. Shark.” He was dressed to the nines, looking even more dapper and sophisticated that I had ever seen him before. He immediately charmed her with a mildly risque joke concerning relatives of his living in the Florida Keys. Laughing together, they skipped away on a wave almost before I could wish them a pleasant evening. I sat down, ordered a biscotti, congratulated myself and imagined the happy pair and the fabulous time they would have together. Then I pictured them at the conclusion of their date, and suddenly I lost my appetite.

  I didn’t go back to the café for a few weeks. I suppose I was avoiding Mr. Shark. I did however run into Phil at the laundromat-pizzeria near my apartment. He mentioned in an offhand way that he hadn’t heard from his friend the sack of oranges recently.

  I was incredulous. “Were you really expecting to?”

  “Well, I haven’t called her. I suppose she’s been occupied with your friend the great white shark.”

  “Phil, think about it ...”

  Phil thought about it. “You think he’s eaten her?”

  “Of course! Probably on the first date!”

  “I really don’t think she’s that kind of girl.”