by Peter Straub
Among the small number of we dedicated Protherians, considerable disagreement exists over the meaning and identification of the “Mannotmann,” sometimes “Monnuttmonn.” “Man not man” is one likely decipherment of the term, “Mammoth man” another. In the first of these works, “Te Styree Uboy F-R-E-D-D-I-E,” or “The Story about Freddie,” Prothero writes, Ay am nott F-R-E-D-D-I-E, and we are told that Freddie, a scaredy-cat, needs him precisely because Freddie is not “Mannotmann.” Can you hear me, everybody? he asks: for this is a central truth.
The precocious child is self-protectively separating from himself within the doubled protection of art, the only realm available to the sane mind in which such separation is possible. In story after story, we are at first informed then reminded that this literal child, our author, had entered into an awareness of self-exile so profound and insistent, so inherent to the very act of expression, as to remind us of Fernando Pessoa. Ol droo, he tells us: It is all true. Ol droo, indeed.
It should go without saying, though unhappily it cannot, that the author’s statement, in the more mature spelling and diction of his sixth year, that a man came from the sky does not refer to the appearance of an extraterrestrial. Some of my colleagues in Prothero studies strike one as nearly as juvenile as, though rather less savvy than, the doomed, hungry little genius who so commands all of us.
1984
Te Styree Uboy F-R-E-D-D-I-E
Ay am nott F-r-e-d-d-i-e. F-R-E-D-D-I-E nott be mee
Hah hah
F-R-E-D-D-I-E iss be nyce, tooo Cin yoo her mee, evvrrie
F-r-e-d-d-i-e iss scarrdiecutt fradydiecutt, nott mee Hee neid mee.
Mannnuttmonn hah scir him hah hah
Bcayuzz Monnntmonn hee eezzz naytt
BOOOO
Ol droo
Ta Sturree Ubot Monnnuttmonn
Baathy baathy momma sai baathy mi nom mommnas sai in gd dyz id wuzz Baaaathy
Monnoittmoon be lissen yz hee lizzen oh ho
Tnbur wz a boi nommed F-r-e-d-d-i-e sai Monnuttmon he sai evvrwhy inn shaar teevee taybbull rug ayr
F-r-e-d-d-i-e un Monnuttmin
Monnuttmoon sai gud boi F-r-e-d-d-i-e god boi
En niht sai SKRREEEEAAAKKKK her wz da bood gig
SKREEEEAAAAKK mummay no heer onny F-r-e-d-d-i-e
Ta bood gig smylz smylz smilez hippi bood gig SKKRREEEEEAAAAAKK att niht
Hi terz mi ert appurt id hertz my ert mi ert pur erzees
Bugg flyes in skie bugg waks on gras
Whi nutt F-r-e-d-d-i-e kann bee bugg
oho ha ha F-r-e-d-d-i-e pur boi pour boi
Ta Struuyrie Abot Dadddi
Wee go in trauyhn sai Dudddi wee wuk striits sai Duddi noon ooh sai F-r-e-d-d-i-e
Bood gig lissen bood gig lisen an laff yu cribbabby cri al yu went sai Mannuttmon
Daddi sai sit heir siitt doon sunn and te boi satt dunn onb triyn wiff Mannnottmonn ryt bezyd hum te biu wuzz escayrt att nite nooo hee sai nooo mummma nut trayn
Hah hah
Dyddi be nutt Mannuttmon F-r-e-d-d-i-e be nott Mannuttmon Mummna be nott Mannuttmon hah no Cus Mannotttmon izz mee Aruynt de Kernerr duywn de strittt ever evverweaur
Deddi sai Wak Faysterr Wak Fayster Whatt ur yu affraitt ovv WhATT
De kerner de strett F-r-e-d-d-i-e sai
1985
The Cornoo
The boy waz standing. He waz standing in the cornoo. There waz a man who caym from the sky. The sky was al blakk. I ate the starz sed the man around the cornoo. The boy cloused his eyz. I ate the stars I ate the moon and the sunn now I eat the wrld. And yu in it. He laft. Yu go playe now he sed. If play yu can. Hah hah he laft. Freddie waked until he ran. That waz suun. I waz in my cornoo and I saw that, I saw him runn. Runn, Freddie. Runn, lettul boy.
Wher iz F-R-E-D-D-I-E ??
He waz not in the bed. He was not in the kishen he was not in the living roome. The Mumma could not find littl Freddie. The man from the blakk sky came and tuke the boy to the ruume in the sky. The Mumma calld the Duddah and she sed are you takng the boy??? Giv him bakk, she sed. This iz my sunn she sed and the Duddah said cam down ar yu craazie?? Becus rembur this is my sunn to onnlee I doin havv him. I saw from the rome in the sky. I herd. They looked soo lidl. And small. And teenie tinee downn thur small as the bugs. Ar you F-R-E-D-D-I-E ?? ast the man of the ruume. No he sed. I waz nevrr him. Now I am the blakk sky and I waz alws the blakk sky.
F-R-E-D-D-I-E Is Lahst
The Mumma the Duddah they sed Were Culd Hee Bee? It waz funnee. They cri they cri OUT hiz namm Freddie Freddie you are lahst. Cann you here us?? No and yes he sed you woodunt Now. The Onne who cumms for mee sum tymes is in Feeldss somme tymes in grasse or rode or cite farr awii. He sed Boi yuu ar nott Freeddie an Freddie iz nott yuu Hee sed Boi Mannuttman iuz whutt yuu cal mee Mannuttmonn is my namm. Mannuttmonn ius for-evv-err.
The boi went dun Gurrhurrdee Streeyt and lookt for his fayce. It waz thurr on the streyt al ruff. The boi mad it smuuf wuth hiz ohn hanns. Wenm hee treyd ut onn itt futt purfuct onn hiz fayce. Hiz fayce fiutt onn hiz fayce. It waz wurm frum the sunn. Wurm Fayce is guud it is luyke Mumma Baathy and Duddah Jymm longg aggoo.
I luv yuur fayce Mumma sed your swite faycce thuer is onnye wann lyke itt in the wrld. Soo I cuuyd nott staye inn mye huis. Itt waz nutt my huis anny moire. It waz Leev Freddiue leeve boi for mee. Thenn hee the boi cam bayck and sed I went Nooweehre Noowehre thads wehre. Noo he sed I dudd nott go to the Citty no I did nutt go to the wood. I went to Noowehre thats wehre. It waz all tru. Aall tru it was sed the boi whooz fayce wuz neoo. He waz Mannuttmann insydde. And Minnuttmann sed Hah Hah Hah menny timnes. His laffter shook the door and it filld up the roome.
1986
Not Long Leftt
The boy lived in this our world and in a diffrent one too. He was a boy who walked Up the staiurs twice and Down the staiurs only once. The seccondd time he went down he was not him. Mannuttmann you calld me long ago and Mannuttman I shall be. The boy saw the frendly old enymee hyding in the doorwais and in the shaddowes of the deep gutter. When he took a step, so did Mannuttman his enymee his frend. The Mumma grabbed his hand and she said too loud Sunny Boy You are still only seven years old sometimes I swear you act like a teenager. Im sorry Mumma he saiud I will never be a teenager. Whats that I hear she said Dud you get that from your preshioys Minutman? You dont know hisz name. When they got to the cornoo at the end of the block the boy smild and told to his Mumma I have not long left. You will see. I have not long left? she said. Where do you get this stuf? He smyled and that was his anser.
What Happenz Wen You Look Upp
Lessay you stan at the bottum of the staires. Lessay you look upp. A Voice tellks you Look Upp Look Upp. Are you happy are you braav? You must look all the waye to the top. All the waye. Freddie is rite there—rite there at the topp. But you dontt see Freddie. You dont’t you cant’t see the top you dont’t see how it goes on and on the staiures you dont’t see you cant. Then the man geus out syde and agen heers the Voice. Look up look up Sullee it is the tyme you must look upp. Freddies Daddie you are,,,, so look upp and see him. Are you goud are you nise are you stronng and braav are you standing on your fruhnt lahwn and leeniung bakk to look up hiuy in the skye? Can you see him? No. No you cant’t. Beecuz Freddie is not there and Freddie is not there beecuz Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobodie is there. He laft. Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobodie laft out lowd. The man on his frunht lahwn is not happoy and he is not braav. No. And not Sytronng. Lessay that’s truoe. Yes. Lessay it. And the Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobody he is not there exseptt he is nevvr at the top of the staires. And he nevvr leeves he nevr lefft. Hah!
The Boy and the Book
Once there was a boy named Frank Pinncushun. That was a comicall naaym but Frank likked his naaym. He had a millyun frends at school and a thosand millyuun at home. At school his best frends were Charley Bruce Mike and Jonny. At home he was freends with Homer Momer Gomer Domer Jomer and Vomer. They never mayde fun of his naaym because it was goode like Barttelmee. Thei
r favrote book was called THE MOUNTAIN OVER THE WALL: DOWN THE BIG RIVVER TREEMER-TRIMMER-TROUWNCE TO THE UNDERGROUND. It was a very long long book: and it was a goid storie. In the book there was a boy named Freddie. Al Frank’s millyon frends wanted to be Freddie! He was their heero. Braav and strong. One day Frank Piunncushun went out to wlkk alone by himsellff. Farr he went: soo farr. Littel Frank walked out of his nayberhooid and wlked some more: he wllkd over streeits over britdches and throou canyhons. He was never affrayed. Then he cayme to the Great River Treemer-Trimmer-Trouynse and what dud he doo? Inn he jumped and divved strait down. At the bottom was a huug hall were he culd breeth and wassnt’t eeven wett! The waalls were hygh redd curtuns and the seelingg ewas sooo farr awaye he culd not see it. Guldenn playtes and guldenn cupps and gulden chaines laie heept up on the flore. Heloh Heloh Freddie yeled. Helo helo helo. A doore opend. A tall man in a redd cloke and werring a crownne came in the bigg roome. He was the Kinge. The Kinge lookt anguree. Who are yoo and whi are yoo yallingg Helo Helo?? I am Frank Pinncushun he sed but I am Freddie to, and I was hear befor. And we will have a greit fyhht and I wil tryk you and ern all the guld. Lessay I tel you sumethyng sed the Kinge. Lessay you liussen. Ar we kleer?? Yes, kleer, sed Frank. The Kinge walked farwude and tutchd his chisst. The Kinge said I am not I and yoo ar not yoo. Do yuoo unnerrstan me? Yes said the boy I unnerstann. Then he tuuk his Nife and killt the Kinge and walkkt into the heeps of guld. I am not me he sed and luukt at his hanns. His hanns were bluudee and drippt over the guld. He lafft thatt boy he lafft so herd hius laffter wennt up to the seeling. Freddie he kuld see his laffter lyke smoke was hius laffter lyke a twyiste roop mayde of smuck but he kuld nott see the seelingg. He niver saw the seelingg. Not wunse.
Acknowledgments
I should not like to lose the dedications to the collections Houses Without Doors and Magic Terror. The first of these was dedicated to Scott Hamilton and Warren Vaché, the second to Lawrence Block.
Of the stories previously uncollected, “Mallon the Guru” was originally published in Stories: All-New Tales; “The Ballad of Ballard and Sandrine” in Conjunctions 56, and “The Collected Short Stories of Freddie Prothero” in Conjunctions 62. I am indebted to Al Sarrantonio and Neil Gaiman, the editors of Stories, and to Bradford Morrow, the tireless and inspired editor of Conjunctions, for their intelligence, tact, sensitivity, and savvy.
Over the thirty-odd years in which I was writing these stories, I drew upon the friendship, love, and support of, among a hundred others, Ann Lauterbach, Valli Shaio and Gregorio Kohon, David Plante, Charles Bernstein and Susan Bee, Laurie Olin, Bradford Morrow, Abby and the late Donald Westlake, Gary K. Wolfe, Rona Pondick and Robert Feintuch, John and Judith Clute, Elizabeth Hand, Hap Beasley, Scott Hamilton, Warren Vaché, Kit Reed, Stephen King, Owen King and Kelly Braffet, Neil Gaiman, Morris Holbrook, Lila Kalinich, Michael and Ginevra Easton, Robert and Loyita Woods, Thomas Tessier, Harry and Martha Yohalem, Anne Ricker, David J. Schow, Ben and Judy Sidran, Leo and Amanda Sidran, Pat Cummings and Chuku Lee, Brian Evenson, Duncan Hannah, Paul Moravec, Bill Sheehan, and Bernadette Bosky.
Michael Fusco-Straub is a special case, having proven his loyalty, talent, and valor time after time.
For their consistent supply of inspiration and what often feels like company, I wish to thank Paul Desmond, Eric Alexander, Chet Baker, Bill Evans, Mike LeDonne, Miles Davis, Freddie Hubbard, Lester Young, Lee Konitz, Warne Marsh, Scott and Warren all over again, Clifford Brown, Charles Earland, Tommy Flanagan, Hank Jones, John Webber, and Joe Farnsworth.
I owe much to many brilliant editors, especially Lee Boudreaux, Alison Callahan, Laurie Bernstein, Bill Thompson, and the late Joe Fox. The present volume has been edited by smart, sensitive Robert Bloom. It is a pleasure to thank David Gernert for his brilliant, thoughtful, good-humored and powerhouse support, which begins by being professional and always quickly widens out to take in and accommodate the personal, which anyhow can only barely be separated from what is professional. David runs a magnificent agency, and he has my back.
Kathy Kinsner, Deanna Pacelli, Tiffany Jones, Este Lewis, Lizzy Crawford, and Jenny Calivas, who in home and office have been so kind, helpful, dependable, and funny, are all very dear to me. I wish also to thank Kathy Kinsner for putting in hour after hour of essential, last-minute work during the preparation of this book’s manuscript.
Joy and pride warm every portion of my relationships with Benjamin Straub and Emma Straub, my grown-up children, as much as when they were the little enchantments that so bravely bore their names out into the world. Their existence continues astonishingly to enrich and deepen my life. Susan Straub remains the truest source of depth and enrichment in my life and is the one person in the world with whom a profound, shared psychic conversation shaped by ancient knowledge, love, respect, and an intimacy in the lowest, most honest registers, is always fluttering mothlike back and forth.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Straub is the New York Times bestselling author of more than a dozen novels, most recently A Dark Matter. In the Night Room and lost boy lost girl, among many others, are winners of the Bram Stoker Award. He lives in New York City.
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