Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665)

by Fancher, Hampton

  Not to despair, Ignog, one of the thieves was saved. But don’t presume, either; one of the thieves was damned. And on top of it the bastard sounded like a Saint Augustine fan. Whatever he was, it would be good for the article.

  Nothing wrong with being a coward, Ignog. You can’t help it. That Howard made him for a coward wasn’t fair. He wanted to ask him to explain, but he didn’t. Howard explained anyway. You’re up here acting like this is an interview, but it isn’t. You don’t have a clue and you know it. What you’re hoping is that if we ever land I’m gonna give you some money, more money than you could otherwise have. What do you mean if we land? I mean I don’t think you really want to. I want to, Howard. It’s too late, Ignog. Shall we sing?

  Ignog was shocked to realize the Bulldog seemed to be flying itself and shocked again when he noticed that Howard had an erection. You and I never learned to enjoy ourselves, but to go flying over China at night is gonna change all that. We’re gonna find joy, Ignog. Shall we sing?

  I’m not much of a singer, Howard. Let’s give it a try. You know “Bill Grogan’s Goat”? No, I don’t, I’m sorry. Don’t be, just pay attention. Howard leaned closer and sang. Bill Grogan’s goat was feeling fine. He ate three shirts from off the line. Bill took a stick, gave him a whack, and tied him to the railroad track. The whistle blew, the train drew near. Bill Grogan’s goat was doomed to die. Howard suddenly stopped singing. What do you think, Ignog? The goat gets hit by the train? Wrong. There’s one more line. Howard sang it softly: Bill Grogan’s goat coughed up the shirts and flagged the trainnnn.

  Pretty good, eh? Yeah, it’s great, Howard. You know what it means, Ignog? That if things are about to go wrong, you can change them? Good try, Ignog, but that’s not what it means. That if you steal a man’s shirt, you’re gonna pay the price? Have you made any money, Ignog? A little, but not your kind of money, Howard. Not many have. There should be an Olympics for making my kind of money.

  Howard flew high and hard. Ignog was getting used to it. That sinking feeling had diminished. Now it was the anticipation of being returned to the ground that felt like dread. Terra Incognita.

  Flying with Howard was something like no thing, not future or past, not actual or otherwise, but more dream, like an odalisque chambered in a night that would never end.

  A little while longer, that’s all any of you have. A little while longer? That’s right, Ignog. You want more? What more is there? Up here there’s more than down there. Down there it’s depravity and death; I bought a city of it. Up here it’s the venerable customs of the air. Which are? Inscrutability. The world has become an unmysterious place, Ignog, a Vegas. But the sky is endless, rhapsodic. Grounded you submit, but up here . . .

  Before Howard could finish the sentence, the Bulldog sputtered. Oh, my. What? Quiet! Is something wrong? Ignog watches Howard fiddle the choke, crank the flaps. Both men groan as the Bulldog silently descends.

  The name tag on her tunic read OLYMPIA. Three desolate blocks in Red Hook was her route. She pushed her cart up the empty sidewalk and stopped in front of a four-story tenement across the street from Abe’s warehouse.

  Before he came to the window to watch her, Abe was in the bathroom checking his neck. He suffered from a swelling of the lymph nodes, something akin to scrofula, the nurse at the clinic said. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, didn’t hurt much, but the blistering was unattractive and he didn’t like being at the window when there was a flare-up.

  Not that the mail lady would notice; she was across the street sorting the mail. So far Abe had never exchanged a word with her, never had the occasion to. But the Kid across the street did; he was sure of that.

  Abe did his talking at the window, saying what he would say if he ever got the chance.

  I’m grander than you, more glorious, and if I decide you’re worth it, long-legged mail lady, I’ll paint you with fire. You’ll never be able to spend the wealth of my love, not in a dozen years, a dozen lifetimes!

  Abe was an artist, a small beaky man, lean and fervent—at least at a distance. He even wrote her a letter once that he never sent, but couldn’t find.

  Everybody on the block hopes you’re smart enough to take advantage of me as soon as possible. I’m taller than you . . .

  He was not taller than her. Olympia was almost six feet; Abe wasn’t quite five-six. And he didn’t know anybody on the block, made it his business not to.

  He watched her go up the stairs into the tenement where the Kid lived.

  What happens to the small apartment of a seldom seen father and an untidy Kid was the shape this one was in. The Kid was sprawled on the couch, one foot cocked on the cushion, the other on the floor.

  He was puggish, quick-eyed, and ten. Bottle of beer in one hand, letter in the other; what he was reading was making him wince:

  You have been selected by a higher being. You’re the kind of woman who needs to have it put to her forcefully.

  Jeeez, give me a break!

  I’ll make you roll over on your back, show me your soft parts. To one such as you, my science is magic.

  You wish!

  I’ll tickle and lap your succulent vitals. The effects of my desire will ripple like moonlight on the pond of your flesh . . .

  The Kid stuffed the letter back in the envelope, finished his beer, and got to his feet.

  Abe was looking for a needle to sew a button on his pants when he was jolted by the knock. He froze, he waited. Whoever it was knocked again. There was nothing to do but go to the door. Abe did, opened it, and there was the Kid, holding up the letter. Abe didn’t know what to do. The Kid said:

  Take it.

  What is it?

  A letter.

  So?

  You send it?

  To who?

  Me! It was in my mailbox.

  Abe took the letter, and as soon as he did, he realized he forgot to put on his pants.

  Read it.

  Abe extracted it from the envelope, pretended to read a couple lines.

  Where did you get this nonsense?

  I told you, in my mailbox.

  The mail lady must’ve made a mistake.

  There’s no stamp on the envelope.

  Like I said, she made a mistake.

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  There were people on the block who knew what Abe did, but nobody the Kid knew had ever been inside the warehouse. Abe could see the Kid was curious and stepped aside to give him a look.

  He’d watched the Kid for more than a year, knew some things about his life, had gone through his trash. The Kid had watched Abe as well, seen him have an argument with a tramp once about an umbrella that Abe said was his.

  The Kid slipped into the warehouse. Except for a cot and a trestle table bearing the tubes, cans, and brushes, all the wild slop of the painter’s trade, the place was almost empty. But there were lots of paintings, some leaned against the wall, some were hung, all of them portraits, except for one. A dirigible grounded on a barren field. The Kid fixed on it. Abe watched him move up for a closer look.

  You drink with the mail lady? I see her go into your building, I don’t see her come out.

  What is this, a blimp?

  Yeah. What color eyes she got?

  How would I know?

  Brown, right?

  Hazel.

  Which is about the same thing.

  There’s green in brown when it’s hazel.

  You know your colors, Kid. How come you don’t go to school?

  I go. I just don’t go outta my way to do it.

  Abe didn’t know any kids, never had one look at any of his paintings.

  What are you gonna do when you grow up?

  Interview the Crab Man.

  You watch the show?

  Of course.

  Y
ou think it’s gonna run till you grow up?

  Doesn’t have to. Crab Man’s about to retire.

  You drink with her, right? I see her go in, but I don’t see her come out.

  Sure you do. You see her come out. I’ve seen you looking.

  You have sex with her?

  I’m ten.

  Brush up against her?

  Once.

  Her against you, or you against her?

  Abe could see the Kid had no interest in this line of thought, so he got to the point.

  I wanna paint her.

  The Kid held up a thumb and squinted at the blimp like an artist appraising a perspective.

  I like this blimp.

  Abe watched him turn away, make for the exit. Not right letting him leave without saying good-bye, but “good-bye” wasn’t right.

  You like the Crab Man more than you like yourself?

  No. I like myself more. But I like myself more because I like the Crab Man.

  Then he went right for the door, turned back to Abe, sliced the air with the flat of his hand, and left. Abe walked over to the blimp to have a look for himself.

  I like myself less than I like this blimp, which is why the blimp makes me feel good about myself. I guess that’s about the same thing.

  For dinner the Kid had boiled weenies and made himself a cocktail of vodka and pineapple juice. This was a special night. The apartment was dark except for the TV. He sat on the floor in front of it, illuminated by The Buster Pleasely Show. Buster was interviewing the Crab Man.

  Engirdled in his amber shell, the Crab Man was all crab, except for his little flat face, which was locked in a frown. One of his eyes was missing, but his claws were large and handsome; they dangled over the box he squatted on.

  Jolly Buster was a large bald man, impersonator of wide-eyed sympathy, but he had no use for anybody and the audience loved him for it. He looked up from an index card.

  I have a question here from a fan in the audience: Is it true The Crab’s Welcome was originally conceived of as a daytime kiddie show?

  The Crab Man didn’t like the question.

  Let me tell you something, Pleasely, and the hairball halibut jawhead who wrote that question—

  Please, no need to be formal, call me Buster.

  I’ll call you Cluster! I told this already on Larry King. The network didn’t believe the nation was gonna embrace a crustacean. And they didn’t—kitty show, pussy show, or the hamsters they rode in on; not till I started writing my own lines did The Crab’s Welcome become a hit.

  The Kid scooted closer to the screen. Pleasely stoked the Crab:

  So you shut down the morning show and turned on the night, thereby snapping up the ratings. I see!

  Then see if you can’t get me that bowl of salt water I asked for in the green room that nobody brought me yet.

  Sorry! Bowl of salt water for our guest, please!

  I’ll throw it in your face!

  The audience roared. The Crab Man rattled his claws. The Kid took a gulp of his highball. Buster kept rolling:

  But it was the writer, Ivan Detbar, that walked off with the Emmy, right?

  A trap the Crab was not about to walk into:

  I’m not gonna go into that. Ivan’s a good man.

  So are you! Dig it everybody, the Crab Man!

  That got applause. The Kid tapped his glass. But neither was the Crab Man going to be a lickspittle for praise:

  Bull pucky! You think everybody always loved the Crab? You think I was always on top? Overnight success? I’m here to tell you that that night took ten fucking years! Now you’re making me mad!

  Wild applause. Pleasely threw his arms up:

  What did I do?

  Keep it up, Pleasely.

  Flushed and pleased, Pleasely implored the audience:

  Hey, hey, don’t egg him on!

  The Crab delivered a thin-pitched bellyache of a whine:

  I don’t want an egg, I want my water!

  After the laughter and applause, Pleasely downshifted:

  Okay, okay, you grumpy crab. Now tell us about your costar, the luscious Little Miss Littlefield, tell us about her.

  When the whistles and hoots died down, the Crab Man grumbled:

  I won’t tell you nothing.

  Pleasely leaned closer:

  You worked with her for six years. You must have something to tell.

  Want me to tell you how on the set she don’t wear underwear?

  The audience went nuts.

  Whoa! Really? How is it you happen to know this?

  I happen to know this because I’m down there on the floor where you can see it! And let me tell you, Buster, Little Miss Littlefield is what you guys call a bottle blonde—the carpet don’t match the drapes.

  The audience cheered and jeered. The Crab Man took it further:

  Remember that next time she’s here pimping for the African Famine Relief.

  Moans and groans. Pleasely shook his head:

  My, my, do we sound a little bitter?

  I lost an eye because of her.

  The audience groaned again. Pleasely switched subjects:

  So what do your friends call you?

  I don’t have none. If I did, they’d call me Pingo.

  Why Pingo?

  Cause I don’t like Dingo!

  Laughter. The rattle of claws. The Kid whispered the name, reached out, touched the screen, said it again:

  Pingo.

  The Crab Man seemed to sag and went reflective:

  What’s the difference? It’s all fiddle and scuttle for a poor old crab, no big deal.

  Hey, you’ve done pretty well for yourself, got a chauffeur, a tennis court with a pool, and a two-story mansion. Eh?

  The Crab Man scoffed:

  Don’t confuse showbiz with real life, Buster. Yeah, sure, I can swim, but I got no interest in tennis, and I live in a cell.

  Like a prison?

  No, like the Maharishi, or Swami Pravakananda. When I’m not working, I’m sitting in there like a monk contemplating my riddles.

  Oh, really? Please, would you tell us one?

  The Kid put down his drink and whispered:

  Yeah, come on, tell one, Pingo!

  The Crab Man took a moment to consider, then:

  What is it takes longer to go down than it does to come up?

  A submarine full of Russians?

  That’s not funny.

  The tenth beer?

  Forget it.

  Come on, what’s the answer?

  If you’re attacked by bees, don’t jump in the lake.

  What’s that mean?

  It means they’ll be waiting for you when you come out.

  I don’t get it.

  You will when I sic a hammerhead on your assplate, Buster!

  The audience erupted. The Crab Man scuffled around on the box like he was going over the edge. Pleasely half rose.

  Where you going?!

  I gotta go clean my cell.

  Hold on! What about your water?

  You drink it!

  The applause was wild. The Kid put down his drink, lifted his arms, snapping his fingers like pincers.

  It was a sunless noon. Mail-lady time. Abe appeared in the front window of his warehouse. He looked left, looked right, but the street was empty.

  Carriers had their special spots to endure the swelter or the cold, places to kick back, a bathroom to use. Olympia had the Kid’s, at least when his dad wasn’t there.

  The Kid was inquisitive, a scrutinizer, and she liked him for that. Also, they could be quiet together. Because Olympia was tall, he asked her if she was part Indian. She wasn’
t. The week before she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He told her he would sell beer at the ballpark. They both knew it was a lie. He’d never been to the ballpark, didn’t know where it was. She wagged a finger at him.

  You just better behave yourself, Mister.

  He loved being with her; besides being beautiful, she was funny. She thought he was too, but they never laughed.

  They were sitting on the floor. He was helping her sort the day’s mail, a job that needed concentration, but he had a question to ask.

  Who’s your favorite superhero?

  Omar the Excluded.

  Never heard of him.

  He’s sort of like Superman, except he can’t fly.

  She was putting the little piles of letters they’d stacked into her satchel.

  So what’s so super about him?

  For one thing, he comes from a destroyed planet, so there’s nothing he can’t survive, but still, the other superguys won’t team up with him.

  Why not?

  Because he’s a drag.

  She hoisted the bag over her shoulder. The Kid got to the door before she did and opened it. He watched her hang the bag on the trolley.

  Is this Omar in the old zines?

  Of course.

  Could I get one?

  If you got the money. They’re not easy to get, they only put out a few.

  What about the Crab Man, you like him?

  Oh, please.

  Abe Zinger, the guy across the street, he likes him. He’s an artist.

  He’s an idiot.

  He’s a good painter.