Donald Barthelme

by Donald Barthelme

  There’s no place to keep him in our apartment building! Alison said triumphantly, pointing at Dan. She was of course absolutely right and I hastily bought a large three-story house in Milwaukee’s best suburb. To make the house more comfortable I bought a concert grand piano.

  ON THE DOORSTEP OF THE NEW HOUSE THE PIANO MOVERS PAUSED FOR A GLASS OF COLD WATER

  Here are some little matters which you must attend to Alison said, handing me a box of bills. I went through them carefully, noting the amounts and thinking about money.

  What in the name of God is this! I cried, holding up a bill for $1600 from the hardware store.

  Garden hose Alison said calmly.

  THERE WAS AN UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE

  It was clear that I would have to remove some money from the State Bank & Trust and place it in the Municipal National and I did so. The pilot of the airplane which I had bought to fly us to Aqueduct, with his friend the pilot of the larger plane I had bought to fly us back, appeared at the door and asked to be paid. The pilots’ names were George and Sam. I paid them and also bought from Sam his flight jacket, which was khaki-colored and pleasant-looking. They smiled and saluted as they left.

  Well I said looking around the new house, we’d better call a piano teacher because I understand that without use pianos tend to fall out of tune.

  Not only pianos Alison said giving me an exciting look.

  A SILENCE FREIGHTED WITH SEXUAL SIGNIFICANCE ENSUED. THEN WE WENT TO BED FIRST HOW-EVER ORDERING A PIANO TEACHER AND A PIANO TUNER FOR THE EARLY MORNING

  The next day Mr. Washington from the Central National called to report an overdraft of several hundred thousand dollars for which I apologized. Who was that on the telephone? Alison asked. Mr. Washington from the bank I replied. Oh Alison said, what do you want for breakfast? What have you got? I asked. Nothing Alison said, we’ll have to go out for breakfast.

  So we went down to the drugstore where Alison had eggs sunny side up and I had buckwheat cakes with sausage. When we got back to the house I noticed that there were no trees surrounding it, which depressed me.

  Have you noticed I asked, that there are no trees?

  A SILENCE

  Yes Alison said, I’ve noticed.

  A PROLONGED SILENCE

  In fact Alison said, the treelessness of this house almost makes me yearn for our old apartment building.

  A TERRIBLE SILENCE

  There at least one could look at the large plants in the lobby.

  ABSOLUTE SILENCE FOR ONE MINUTE SHORT SILENCE

  As soon as we go inside I said, I will call the tree service and buy some trees.

  Maples I said.

  Oh Peter what a fine idea Alison said brightly. But who are these people in our living-room?

  SILENTLY WE REGARDED THE TWO MEN WHO SAT ON THE SOFA

  Realizing that the men were the piano teacher and the piano tuner we had requested, I said: Well did you try the piano?

  Yep the first man said, couldn’t make heads or tails out of it.

  And you? I asked, turning to the other man.

  Beats me he said with a mystified look.

  What seems to be the difficulty? I asked.

  THERE WAS A SHAMEFACED SILENCE

  Frankly the piano teacher said, this isn’t my real line of work. Really he said, I’m a jockey.

  How about you? I said to his companion.

  Oh I’m a bona fide piano tuner all right the tuner said. It’s just that I’m not very good at it. Never was and never will be.

  WE CONSIDERED THE PROBLEM IN SILENCE

  I have a proposition to make I announced. What is your name? I asked, nodding in the direction of the jockey.

  Slim he said, and my friend here is Buster.

  Well Slim I said, we need a jockey for our race horse, Dan, who will fall out of trim without workouts. And Buster, you can plant the maple trees which I have just ordered for the house.

  THERE WAS A JOYFUL SILENCE AS BUSTER AND SLIM TRIED TO DIGEST THE GOOD NEWS

  I settled on a salary of $12,000 a year for Slim and a slightly smaller one for Buster. This accomplished I drove the Rolls over to Courtlandt Street to show it to my mistress, Amelia.

  When I knocked at the door of Amelia’s apartment she refused to open it. Instead she began practicing scales on her flute. I knocked again and called out: Amelia!

  THE SOUND OF THE FLUTE FILLED THE SILENT HALLWAY

  I knocked again but Amelia continued to play. So I sat down on the steps and began to read the newspaper which was lying on the floor, knocking at intervals and at the same time wondering about the psychology of Amelia.

  Montgomery Ward I noticed in the newspaper was at 40½. Was Amelia being adamant I considered, because of Alison?

  SILENTLY I WONDERED WHAT TO DO

  Amelia I said at length (through the door), I want to give you a nice present of around $5500. Would you like that?

  AN INTERMINABLE SILENCE, THEN AMELIA HOLDING THE FLUTE OPENED THE DOOR

  Do you mean it? she said.

  Certainly I said.

  Can you afford it? she asked doubtfully.

  I have a new Rolls I told her, and took her outside where she admired the car at great length. Then I gave her a check for $5500 on the Commercial National for which she thanked me. Back in the apartment she gracefully removed her clothes and put the check in a book in the bookcase. She looked very pretty without her clothes, as pretty as ever, and we had a pleasant time for an hour or more. When I left the apartment Amelia said Peter, I think you’re a very pleasant person which made me feel very good and on the way home I bought a new gray Dacron suit.

  WHEN I GAVE THE SALESMAN A CHECK ON THE MEDICAL NATIONAL HE PAUSED, FROWNED, AND SAID: “THIS IS A NEW BANK ISN’T IT?”

  Where have you been? Alison said, I’ve been waiting lunch for hours. I bought a new suit I said, how do you like it? Very nice Alison said, but hurry I’ve got to go shopping after lunch. Shopping! I said, I’ll go with you!

  So we ate a hasty lunch of vichyssoise and ice cream and had Buster drive us in the Rolls to the Federated Department Store where we bought a great many things for the new house and a new horse blanket for Dan.

  Do you think we ought to buy uniforms for Buster and Slim? Alison asked and I replied that I thought not, they didn’t seem the sort who would enjoy wearing uniforms.

  A FROSTY SILENCE

  I think they ought to wear uniforms Alison said firmly.

  No I said, I think not.

  DEAD SILENCE

  Uniforms with something on the pocket Alison said. A crest or something.

  No.

  THERE WAS AN INTERVAL DURING WHICH I SENT A CHECK FOR $500,000 TO THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART

  Instead of uniforms I bought Slim a Kaywoodie pipe and some pipe tobacco, and bought Buster a larger sterling silver cowboy belt buckle and a belt to go with it.

  Buster was very pleased with his sterling silver belt buckle and said that he thought Slim would be pleased too when he saw the Kaywoodie pipe which had been bought for him. You were right after all Alison whispered to me in the back seat of the Rolls.

  Alison decided that she would make a pie
for supper, a chocolate pie perhaps, and that we would have Buster and Slim and George and Sam the pilots too if they were in town and not flying. She began looking in her recipe book while I read the Necchi News in my favorite armchair.

  Then Slim came in from the garage with a worried look. Dan he said is not well.

  A STUNNED PAUSE

  Everyone was thrown into a panic by the thought of Dan’s illness and I bought some Kaopectate which Slim however did not believe would be appropriate. The Kaopectate was $0.98 and I paid for it with a check on the Principal National. The delivery boy from the drugstore, whose name was Andrew, suggested that Dan needed a doctor. This seemed sensible so I tipped Andrew with a check on the Manufacturers’ Trust and asked him to fetch the very best doctor he could find on such short notice.

  WE LOOKED AT ONE ANOTHER IN WORDLESS FEAR

  Dan was lying on his side in the garage, groaning now and then. His face was a rich gray color and it was clear that if he did not have immediate attention, the worst might be expected.

  Peter for God’s sake do something for this poor horse! Alison cried.

  PAUSING ONLY TO WHIP A FRESH CHECKBOOK FROM THE DESK DRAWER, I BOUGHT A LARGE HOSPITAL NEARBY FOR $1.5 MILLION

  We sent Dan over in his trailer with strict instructions that he be given the best of everything. Slim and Buster accompanied him and when Andrew arrived with the doctor I hurried them off to the hospital too. Concern for Dan was uppermost in my mind at that moment.

  The telephone rang and Alison answered.

  Then she said: It’s some girl, for you.

  RETURNING TO THE LIVINGROOM, ALISON HESITATED

  As I had thought it might be, it was Amelia. I told her about Dan’s illness. She was very concerned and asked if I thought it would be appropriate if she went to the hospital.

  A MOMENT OF INDECISION FOLLOWED BY A PAINFUL SILENCE

  You don’t think it would be appropriate Amelia said.

  No Amelia I said truthfully, I don’t.

  Then Amelia said that this indication of her tiny status in all our lives left her with nothing to say.

  THE CONVERSATION LAPSED

  To cheer her up I said I would visit her again in the near future. This pleased her and the exchange ended on a note of warmth. I knew however that Alison would ask questions and I returned to the livingroom with some anxiety.

  AN HIATUS FILLED WITH DOUBT AND SUSPICION

  But now the pilots George and Sam rushed in with good news indeed. They had gotten word of Dan’s illness over the radio they said, and filled with concern had flown straight to the hospital, where they learned that Dan’s stomach had been pumped and all was well. Dan was resting easily George and Sam said, and could come home in about a week.

  Oh Peter! Alison exclaimed in a pleased way, our ordeal is over. She kissed me with abandon and George and Sam shook hands with each other and with Andrew and Buster and Slim, who had just come in from the hospital. To celebrate we decided that we would all fly to London and Rome on a Viscount jet which I bought for an undisclosed sum and which Sam declared he knew how to fly very well.

  A Shower of Gold

  BECAUSE HE needed the money Peterson answered an ad that said “We’ll pay you to be on TV if your opinions are strong enough or your personal experiences have a flavor of the unusual.” He called the number and was told to come to Room 1551 in the Graybar Building on Lexington. This he did and after spending twenty minutes with a Miss Arbor who asked him if he had ever been in analysis was okayed for a program called Who Am I? “What do you have strong opinions about?” Miss Arbor asked. “Art,” Peterson said, “life, money.” “For instance?” “I believe,” Peterson said, “that the learning ability of mice can be lowered or increased by regulating the amount of serotonin in the brain. I believe that schizophrenics have a high incidence of unusual fingerprints, including lines that make almost complete circles. I believe that the dreamer watches his dream in sleep, by moving his eyes.” “That’s very interesting!” Miss Arbor cried. “It’s all in the World Almanac,” Peterson replied.

  “I see you’re a sculptor,” Miss Arbor said, “that’s wonderful.” “What is the nature of the program?” Peterson asked. “I’ve never seen it.” “Let me answer your question with another question,” Miss Arbor said. “Mr. Peterson, are you absurd?” Her enormous lips were smeared with a glowing white cream. “I beg your pardon?” “I mean,” Miss Arbor said earnestly, “do you encounter your own existence as gratuitous? Do you feel de trop? Is there nausea?” “I have an enlarged liver,” Peterson offered. “That’s excellent!” Miss Arbor exclaimed. “That’s a very good beginning! Who Am I? tries, Mr. Peterson, to discover what people really are. People today, we feel, are hidden away inside themselves, alienated, desperate, living in anguish, despair and bad faith. Why have we been thrown here, and abandoned? That’s the question we try to answer, Mr. Peterson. Man stands alone in a featureless, anonymous landscape, in fear and trembling and sickness unto death. God is dead. Nothingness everywhere. Dread. Estrangement. Finitude. Who Am I? approaches these problems in a root radical way.” “On television?” “We’re interested in basics, Mr. Peterson. We don’t play around.” “I see,” Peterson said, wondering about the amount of the fee. “What I want to know now, Mr. Peterson, is this: are you interested in absurdity?” “Miss Arbor,” he said, “to tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’m not sure I believe in it.” “Oh, Mr. Peterson!” Miss Arbor said, shocked. “Don’t say that! You’ll be . . .” “Punished?” Peterson suggested. “You may not be interested in absurdity,” she said firmly, “but absurdity is interested in you.” “I have a lot of problems, if that helps,” Peterson said. “Existence is problematic for you,” Miss Arbor said, relieved. “The fee is two hundred dollars.”

  “I’m going to be on television,” Peterson said to his dealer. “A terrible shame,” Jean-Claude responded. “Is it unavoidable?” “It’s unavoidable,” Peterson said, “if I want to eat.” “How much?” Jean-Claude asked and Peterson said: “Two hundred.” He looked around the gallery to see if any of his works were on display. “A ridiculous compensation considering the infamy. Are you using your own name?” “You haven’t by any chance . . .” “No one is buying,” Jean-Claude said. “Undoubtedly it is the weather. People are thinking in terms of—what do you call those things?—Chris-Crafts. To boat with. You would not consider again what I spoke to you about before?” “No,” Peterson said, “I wouldn’t consider it.” “Two little ones would move much, much faster than a single huge big one,” Jean-Claude said, looking away. “To saw it across the middle would be a very simple matter.” “It’s supposed to be a work of art,” Peterson said, as calmly as possible. “You don’t go around sawing works of art across the middle, remember?” “That place where it saws,” Jean-Claude said, “is not very difficult. I can put my two hands around it.” He made a circle with his two hands to demonstrate. “Invariably when I look at that piece I see two pieces. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t conceive it wrongly in the first instance?” “Absolutely,” Peterson said. Not a single piece of his was on view, and his liver expanded in rage and hatred. “You have a very romantic impulse,” Jean-Claude said. “I admire, dimly, the posture. You read too much in the history of art. It estranges you from those possibilities for authentic selfhood that inhere in the present century.” “I know,” Peterson said, “could you let me have twenty until the first?”

  Peterson sat in his loft on lower Broadway drinking Rhein­gold and thinking about the President. He had always felt close to the President but felt now that he had, in agreeing to appear on the television program, done something slightly disgraceful, of which the President would
not approve. But I needed the money, he told himself, the telephone is turned off and the kitten is crying for milk. And I’m running out of beer. The President feels that the arts should be encouraged, Peterson reflected, surely he doesn’t want me to go without beer? He wondered if what he was feeling was simple guilt at having sold himself to television or something more elegant: nausea? His liver groaned within him and he considered a situation in which his new relationship with the President was announced. He was working in the loft. The piece in hand was to be called Season’s Greetings and combined three auto radiators, one from a Chevrolet Tudor, one from a Ford pickup, one from a 1932 Essex, with part of a former telephone switchboard and other items. The arrangement seemed right and he began welding. After a time the mass was freestanding. A couple of hours had passed. He put down the torch, lifted off the mask. He walked over to the refrigerator and found a sandwich left by a friendly junk dealer. It was a sandwich made hastily and without inspiration: a thin slice of ham between two pieces of bread. He ate it gratefully nevertheless. He stood looking at the work, moving from time to time so as to view it from a new angle. Then the door to the loft burst open and the President ran in, trailing a sixteen-pound sledge. His first blow cracked the principal weld in Season’s Greetings, the two halves parting like lovers, clinging for a moment and then rushing off in opposite directions. Twelve Secret Service men held Peterson in a paralyzing combination of secret grips. He’s looking good, Peterson thought, very good, healthy, mature, fit, trustworthy. I like his suit. The President’s second and third blows smashed the Essex radiator and the Chevrolet radiator. Then he attacked the welding torch, the plaster sketches on the workbench, the Rodin cast and the Giacometti stickman Peterson had bought in Paris. “But Mr. President!” Peterson shouted. “I thought we were friends!” A Secret Service man bit him in the back of the neck. Then the President lifted the sledge high in the air, turned toward Peterson, and said: “Your liver is diseased? That’s a good sign. You’re making progress. You’re thinking.”