Soul of a Whore and Purvis

by Denis Johnson

As any I would make to get the hangman’s

  Noose from off my neck. But I don’t know

  What, exactly, I’m promising, something, just

  Some way of being different, and if I can,

  Then that will save the world…But I don’t know…

  The nights don’t give me my rest like they should.

  PURVIS: Are you describing a dream?

  INT: Is this a dream?

  In the daylight my blood feels watery.

  All my vows and all my fine resolves

  Dissolve into corruption.

  I walk around the town and everything

  Feels silent no matter how much noise we make,

  Like we aren’t people, we haven’t been informed,

  We’re walking around but we have no names.

  I used to enjoy the moving picture shows,

  But now I sit there in the crowd and I just

  Smell my fellow Americans stinking and

  I hear the breath ride in and out of their mouths

  So loudly it mutes the spectacle.

  Do you remember Frankenstein with Boris

  Karloff?

  PURVIS: Enervation, lassitude—

  INT: I feel like fate has played me for a sucker,

  Sold me a ticket printed on a cobweb—

  Where’s the glorious circus? It’s dark. I hear the wind.

  It was only a noise in a dream that woke me up.

  There isn’t any Heaven. There isn’t any Hell.

  I smell the ashtrays in the rooms…And then

  I rise from bed. I go into the morning.

  My children embrace me vaguely and politely,

  My daughter comes to kiss me, and her face

  And fingers smell like the puppy she’s been petting.

  And in this world the spring is turning green

  And I see how I’m beginning to disappoint

  My son. Just as I disappointed my father.

  What pleased me once no longer pleases me,

  And the bright things pale in my sight,

  And meanwhile, things that never could have failed—

  My little daughter’s little hand, her kisses—

  They give out. Give way. And now my daughter

  Stands level with my shoulder, and she wears

  Those peasant blouses, and her friends…are pretty.

  And I go to see my father at his house.

  He sits in a wicker chair beside a weeping

  Willow and the chair is chipped and sets

  Askew and he tips a little and his hands

  Are tiny and his fly is down and his eyes

  Are wet and red-rimmed; and the way they shine

  While something works the corners of his mouth,

  He looks as if he’s trying not to laugh

  At something terrifying coming up

  Behind me. “Dad,” I say, and he says, “What,

  What is it?”—but the point is gone in saying,

  Dad, I’m someone you might pride yourself

  To call your son. For all the hope of reaching

  Him who was my father, I might as well

  Be speaking to his headstone. “Father, Father,

  It’s raining on us both, on me and on

  Your wicker chair beside the weeping willow.”

  One afternoon when I was a child the sky

  Blackened and bits of trash whirled up and around

  And the rain ripped down like knives and at the window

  Of the house my father held me in the crook

  Of his arm, I was that small, and we both watched

  That willow twisting till a lash of lightning

  Tore a third of it away from the trunk

  And pitched it across the yard—and, sir, no storm,

  No wind, no dark, no violence

  Could possibly have touched me in the fortress

  Of my father’s arm…. O well…O well…Ah, shit. Ah, shit.

  Mr. Purvis, I can stride right now

  Right into that pasture right out there

  And tickle fresh, warm milk from out the teats

  Of the great-grandchildren of the very cows

  Who gave us milk to pour on our Post Toasties!

  …I mean when I was a child. When I was a child.

  PURVIS:…Yes. The cows out there look very healthy…

  INT:…I spoke too much. I always do. I always—

  PURVIS: Let me tell you of the death of Baby Face.

  …Remember, now, this bloodgush horrorshow

  Unfolds within a splendid natural silence

  Forty miles outside Chicago proper,

  Near Baker Lake, where the mallard ducks

  Had not yet left, though late November had come,

  And they sailed on its glass…All right:

  Two of my agents, Ryan and McDade,

  Passing a Ford on the Northwest Highway, matched

  Three numbers on its plates with those of Nelson’s,

  Now America’s number one Most Wanted.

  They quickly turned around, but so did Nelson,

  Absolutely ready for a fight,

  And when they crossed again, again he turned,

  And chased them north, firing his tommy gun,

  Chewing up their car, and they fired back,

  Neither drawing blood as yet. With Nelson

  Traveled his woman Helen and John Paul Chase,

  A red-mouthed harlot and a no-good punk,

  And now, as they fell behind, leaking

  Water from a punctured radiator,

  Two more agents in another car

  Closed with Nelson’s Ford V-8—Sam Cowley

  And Herman Hollis—Nelson chasing agents

  And agents chasing Nelson—until Ryan

  Sped away, quite unaware that help

  Had come. As Nelson’s engine quit, he turned

  Into the Northside Park in Barrington

  And bumped to a halt. Helen ran for a drainage

  Ditch and Chase and Nelson grabbed their guns

  And ducked behind the Ford and fired at Sam

  And Hollis as their car went by. The agents

  Bailed, neither wounded, Hollis taking

  Cover from his car and Cowley rolling

  Into a second ditch, both firing back.

  Now, Cowley headed our Chicago office,

  And Hollis was with me at the Biograph

  When we took Dillinger. Hollis was among

  The men who actually shot and killed the varlet.

  Crack shots both, firing from good cover,

  They gave no quarter in this battle until,

  Quite beyond my comprehension to this day,

  Nelson simply stood up, steadying

  His Thompson at his hip, and strode toward them,

  Firing rapid bursts and cursing. Cowley

  Hit him in the side, yet he kept coming.

  He took another in the belly, still came on,

  Rounded the car and slaughtered Hollis as

  The agent ran for different cover, and,

  Turning to Cowley—who’d been filling him

  All the while with bullets—stood above him

  There at the ditch’s edge and made his wife

  A widow with the tommy gun. He then

  Managed to get in the federal car and start it,

  And then those bastards sped away and left

  Two agents, good men both, dead in their wake.

  Next morning, in a cemetery close

  To Nelson’s hometown, Fox Grove, Illinois,

  They found his naked corpse wrapped in a blanket.

  The coroner counted seventeen bullet holes.

  His name was Lester Joseph Gillis. He

  Was one week shy of twenty-six years old.

  INT: Seventeen, you—seventeen, you say.

  PURVIS: No mere human could have lived beyond

  The impact of the first four or five.

  I thought, Now that is what we�
��re up against:

  Psychosis of a power to hold a man

  Aright and marching like some—

  INT: Lazarus!—

  PURVIS: Indeed, some revenant, some Frankenstein—

  INT: Old Boris Karloff!—or the Mummy—

  PURVIS: Yes,

  As the bullets fill him—

  INT: Saint Sebastian martyred

  By the arrows!—

  PURVIS: Well, you get the point.

  INT: I’m sorry. What a picture, though! Excuse.

  PURVIS: His dead flesh animated by the lava

  Of anti-authoritarian disrespect.

  …I don’t care whose side that man was on,

  In 1918 they’d have borne his coffin

  Draped with glory through the streets of home.

  INT: You shouldn’t say such things.

  PURVIS: It’s all

  A mystery.

  INT: But never say it is.

  PURVIS: I never shall again. You have my word.

  INT: And you, sir, have a job.

  PURVIS: I’ll strive in it.

  BLACKOUT

  Scene 5

  January 1935: An office of the U.S. Division of Investigation, Chicago.

  During the scene we sometimes hear the commotion of a nearby elevator.

  HOOVER behind the desk, dressed in a business suit.

  He makes faces and clenches his fists and wrings his hands, screams and laughs and weeps—all silently.

  HOOVER [into intercom]:…Blanche.

  BLANCHE’S VOICE: Yes, sir.

  HOOVER: Is he still in the anteroom?

  BLANCHE’S VOICE: Yes. Mr. Purvis is standing in the anteroom.

  HOOVER: What is he doing now?

  BLANCHE’S VOICE: He’s—standing in the anteroom.

  HOOVER: Have you got him by the window? Left side?

  BLANCHE’S VOICE: No, sir.

  HOOVER: No, sir?

  BLANCHE’S VOICE: I told him to stand by the window, but he moved.

  HOOVER: All right. [On phone] Hello.

  I wish to place a person-to-person call—

  Excuse me. Later. I’ll—goodbye…[Into intercom] Now, Blanche,

  Who is ascending? I hear someone ascending.

  That whirring again. That whir and thunk. I hear it.

  BLANCHE’S VOICE: They went to another floor.

  HOOVER: Quite right. All right.

  Goodbye. [On phone] Hello. Hello. Person-to-person, please,

  To the Hoover residence in Washington, D.C.

  Temple six eight seven seven eight.

  O—Mr. Hoover for Mrs. Hoover. Sorry.

  …Mother, how are you?…Mother, put your mouth

  Nearer the mouthpiece; that’s why they call it that.

  Mother, I miss you…It’s cold, the rivers are frozen.

  This wind will whirl you around and slap your face.

  …O, I love you too…O, I miss you sorely.

  How are you doing?…How are you doing, Mother?

  How are the cats?…How are the cats? The—

  How does Snooky Snooker snuggle without me?

  O, that’s sweet!…He’s precious. So are you.

  …Mother, I want your prayers today, especially

  Today. Go on your knees, dear Mother, and pray

  That I find the strength to go about my work.

  …I know you do, I know you do, but now

  As much as ever, Mother…Thank you.

  …There isn’t any danger, Mother. I’m just—

  …O, O, no no no. The telephone—

  The telephone can’t hurt you…No no no,

  Chicago telephones are harmless, too.

  …All right, but never fear. And pray for me.

  All right, all right—hello? Hello?—Goodbye.

  [Leaps to his feet.]

  …What’s this, my man—a hooligan’s switchblade knife?

  But I am a servant of the law. And yet

  I hold this blade, how sharp, and to what purpose?

  Huuuuh! Hrrrrrrh! Haah! Hhm-hhm! Hrrraaggghhh!

  They said you had a lot of guts! Quite so!

  Let me introduce you to your bowels.

  Here’s the large, and here the small intestine.

  My! What have you been eating?—Eat it again!

  Hah-HAH hrrr-hrrr HLLL HLLL haaghr AAH.

  How do you look in this year’s very latest

  Fashionable scarf, the tripe-of-traitor

  From deep in the interiors of you?

  There! Now I’m the man who collared Purvis!

  You’re trembling, trembling, let me snug your cravat.

  How you blush! Too much? O no, I mustn’t

  Strangle you, no. No, you’re going to spend

  Seven long days begging to be strangled!

  HAAARGH HUUUH huh huh huh huh huh…

  [Resumes his seat.]

  …Send him in…Hhhhrrrr. Hrrrrhh. Hrrrh. Hrrrh. Hrrrh.

  [MELVIN PURVIS enters.]

  Here’s our man, “the man of the hour”! Sit.

  PURVIS: Welcome to Chicago, sir.

  HOOVER: Director.

  PURVIS: Welcome to Chicago, Director.

  HOOVER: Hoover.

  Director Hoover.

  PURVIS: Welcome to Chicago—

  HOOVER: Title and name, Special Agent Purvis.

  PURVIS: Welcome to Chi—

  HOOVER: Thought I’d better see

  Firsthand how things are done in the Windy City.

  PURVIS: Well, you’re most—

  HOOVER: The city of the big shoulders,

  Hacker and stacker and mover of meats, O bold

  Encaser of meats, Special Agent Purvis.

  Special Agent Purvis: title—

  PURVIS: and name,

  Yes, sir—or, yes, Director Hoo—

  HOOVER: Quite so.

  Marvin, are you hungry? You look hungry.

  PURVIS: I believe we’re going to lunch? Or am I wrong.

  HOOVER: Hark! Our luncheon rises in its cage.

  [To intercom] Is that for us, Blanche?—Lunch is on the way.

  [Two box lunches arrive. Meanwhile:]

  …Well. Quite a year. Quite a half-year—

  Five months, more like, what hey? Three villains down.

  Dillinger, Baby Face, and Pretty Boy.

  PURVIS: I wouldn’t flatter them with monickers.

  Or even names. Nor shrines. Nor histories.

  Not even so much as markers on their graves.

  HOOVER: What, then?

  PURVIS: Urinals.

  HOOVER: —Good, Midwestern milk:

  Here’s to “the man who collared Dillinger”!

  …But we aren’t cowboys, are we, sir? Or clowns?

  We can’t be turning handsprings, courting headlines.

  PURVIS: An officer charges foremost into the fray.

  He can’t lead from behind.

  HOOVER: What luscious ham!

  —May I call you Marvin?

  PURVIS: My name’s Melvin.

  HOOVER: I see. Melvin. Melvin. Melvin’s rather…

  Swiss cheese, mustard—milk all right?

  PURVIS: Yes, Director Hoover.

  HOOVER: Call me…

  PURVIS: Edgar?…John?

  HOOVER: Director Hoover will do.

  [They address their meals. Neither actually succeeds in eating anything. Meanwhile:]

  …What do you make of this Adolf Hitler fellow?

  PURVIS: He seems a volatile ingredient.

  HOOVER: Still and all, don’t you think he trains

  His mind with clarity on all the truly

  Modern problems? On the subjugation

  Of growing populations, one might say

  On swollen populations—one might say

  Tumescent throbbing citizenries?

  They must be kept in hand, but ever so gently.

  We can’t accomplish this by deadly force

  Of arms. A zealous subtlety is wanted,

/>   Vigilance, subtlety, creativity.

  PURVIS: He strikes me as a dangerous maniac.

  HOOVER:…Marvin—Melvin? Marvin? Marvin—Melvin,

  Help me, please.

  PURVIS: Of course, Director Hoover.

  HOOVER: I’m composing a letter of termination.

  PURVIS: Termination? Do you refer to a death?

  HOOVER: I don’t. I mean the ending of employment.

  …We moderns author a language suited to

  Our work: the work of faceless entities.

  The modern age boils slowly forward on

  The inauspicious labors of a multitude,

  Comings and goings, routes and dates and times,

  Bits and pieces, instruments and engines,

  A monstrous undergrowth of pipes and wires,

  And, Marvin, what do you suppose prevents

  The behemoth from strangling on itself?

  Order: tables, lists, charts, graphs,

  Indices, appendices,

  Inventories, catalogues.

  And who shall keep these treasures holy?

  The men of the bureaus; we, the Bureaucrats!

  We who stalk our shadows in the halls,

  We who strum the blades of pages with

  The ridges of our fingerprints. In battle

  We unsheath the alphabet and drive deep

  The Dewey decimal. Quite right—small stuff.

  Yet we accomplish in the aggregate

  What Hercules and Theseus would’ve—

  Theseus married, as I think you know,

  The queen of the Amazons. I shall never marry.

  I am wife and husband to this work.

  Bureaucrat. The word makes music.

  I am having our branch redesignated:

  No more “Division of Investigation.”

  Is this a division?—Are we, then, dividers?

  No! Bureau is the French for “desk”:

  Our steed, our tank, our Howitzer.

  Our battleship! Dreadnought! Gunboat! Bastard schooner!

  “The Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Yes. A bureau. We’ll be Bureaucrats!

  PURVIS: Like Jason and the Argonauts.

  HOOVER: Somewhat.

  PURVIS: Hoover and the Bureaucrats.

  HOOVER: Just so.

  [He gathers both their meals together, and lunch is over.]

  …I am holding in my mind the text

  Of a lacerating letter to demand

  The resignation of a renegade.

  Demand, did I say? No. I shall command.