The Dean looked embarrassed.
“You don’t know Mr. Sonny Bono, do you?” Griswold asked. “He lives around here somewheres, don’t he?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” the Dean said. He thought for a moment. “I know a booker in Vegas, though. He was one of our people. He was a grad student in comparative religion.”
“Maybe we can do a deal,” the wrangler said. “Whichaway is New York City?”
•
“Well?” the Dean’s wife asked. “What were their demands?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” the Dean said. “My mule is double-parked.”
The herd turned onto the Cross Bronx Expressway. People looking out of their cars saw thousands and thousands of porcupines. The porcupines looked like badly engineered vacuum-cleaner attachments.
Vegas, the wrangler was thinking. Ten weeks at Caesar’s Palace at a sock 15 G’s a week. The Ballad of the Last Drive. Leroy Griswold singing his smash single, The Ballad of the Last Drive.
“Git along theah, li’l porcupines.”
The citizens in their cars looked at the porcupines, thinking: What is wonderful? Are these porcupines wonderful? Are they significant? Are they what I need?
The Educational Experience
MUSIC FROM somewhere. It is Vivaldi’s great work, The Semesters.
The students wandered among the exhibits. The Fisher King was there. We walked among the industrial achievements. A good-looking gas turbine, behind a velvet rope. The manufacturers described themselves in their literature as “patient and optimistic.” The students gazed, and gaped. Hitting them with ax handles is no longer permitted, hugging and kissing them is no longer permitted, speaking to them is permitted but only under extraordinary circumstances.
The Fisher King was there. In Current Pathology by Spurry and Entemann, the King is called “a doubtful clinical entity.” But Spurry and Entemann have never caught him, so far as is known. Transfer of information from the world to the eye is permitted if you have signed oaths of loyalty to the world, to the eye, to Current Pathology.
We moved on. The two major theories of origin, evolution and creation, were argued by bands of believers who gave away buttons, balloons, bumper stickers, pieces of the True Cross. On the walls, photographs of stocking masks. The visible universe was doing very well, we decided, a great deal of movement, flux—unimpaired vitality. We made the students add odd figures, things like 453498*23:J and 8977?22MARY. This was part of the educational experience, we told them, and not even the hard part—just one side of a many-sided effort. But what a wonderful time you’ll have, we told them, when the experience is over, done, completed. You will all, we told them, be more beautiful than you are now, and more employable too. You will have a grasp of the total situation; the total situation will have a grasp of you.
Here is a diode, learn what to do with it. Here is Du Guesclin, constable of France 1370–80—learn what to do with him. A divan is either a long cushioned seat or a council of state—figure out at which times it is what. Certainly you can have your dangerous drugs, but only for dessert—first you must chew your cauliflower, finish your fronds.
Oh they were happy going through the exercises and we told them to keep their tails down as they crawled under the wire, the wire was a string of quotations, Tacitus, Herodotus, Pindar . . . Then the steady-state cosmologists, Bondi, Gold, and Hoyle, had to be leaped over, the students had to swing from tree to tree in the Dark Wood, rappel down the sheer face of the Merzbau, engage in unarmed combat with the Van de Graaff machine, sew stocking masks. See? Unimpaired vitality.
We paused before a bird’s lung on a pedestal. “But the mammalian lung is different!” they shouted. “A single slug of air, per hundred thousand population . . .” Some fool was going to call for “action” soon, citing the superiority of praxis to pale theory. A wipe-out requires thought, planning, coordination, as per our phoncon of 6/8/75. Classic film scripts were stretched tight over the destruction of indigenous social and political structures for dubious ends, as per our phoncon of 9/12/75. “Do you think intelligent life exists outside this bed?” one student asked another, confused as to whether she was attending the performance, or part of it. Unimpaired vitality, yes, but—
And Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was there in his Sam Browne belt, he was copulating violently but copulating with no one, that’s always sad to see. Still it was a “nice try” and in that sense inspirational, a congratulation to the visible universe for being what it is. The group leader read from an approved text. “I have eaten from the tympanum, I have drunk from the cymbals.” The students shouted and clashed their spears together, in approval. We noticed that several of them were off in a corner playing with animals, an ibex, cattle, sheep. We didn’t know whether we should tell them to stop, or urge them to continue. Perplexities of this kind are not infrequent in our business. The important thing is the educational experience itself—how to survive it.
We moved them along as fast as we could, but it’s difficult, with all the new regulations, restrictions. The Chapel Perilous is a bomb farm now, they have eight thousand acres in guavas and a few hundred head of white-faced enlisted men who stand around with buckets of water, buckets of sand. We weren’t allowed to smoke, that was annoying, but necessary I suppose to the preservation of our fundamental ideals. Then we taught them how to put stamps on letters, there was a long line waiting in front of that part of the program, we lectured about belt buckles, the off/on switch, and putting out the garbage. It is wise not to attempt too much all at once—perhaps we weren’t wise.
The best way to live is by not knowing what will happen to you at the end of the day, when the sun goes down and the supper is to be cooked. The students looked at each other with secret smiles. Rotten of them to conceal their feelings from us, we who are doing the best we can. The invitation to indulge in emotion at the expense of rational analysis already constitutes a political act, as per our phoncon of 11/9/75. We came to a booth where the lessons of 1914 were taught. There were some wild strawberries there, in the pool of blood, and someone was playing the piano, softly, in the pool of blood, and the Fisher King was fishing, hopelessly, in the pool of blood. The pool is a popular meeting place for younger people but we aren’t younger any more so we hurried on. “Come and live with me,” that was something somebody said to someone else, a bizarre idea that was quickly scotched—we don’t want that kind of idea to become general, or popular.
“The world is everything that was formerly the case,” the group leader said, “and now it is time to get back on the bus.” Then all of the guards rushed up and demanded their bribes. We paid them with soluble traveler’s checks and hoped for rain, and hoped for rodomontade, braggadocio, blare, bray, fanfare, flourish, tucket.
The Discovery
“I’M DEPRESSED,” Kate said.
Boots became worried. “Did I say something wrong?”
“You don’t know how to say anything wrong.”
“What?”
“The thing about you is, you’re dull.”
“I’m dull?”
There was a silence. Then Fog said: “Anybody want to go over to Springs to the rodeo?”
“Me?” Boots said. “Dull?”
The Judge got up and went over and sat down next to Kate.
“Now Kate, you oughtn’t to be goin’ round callin’ Boots dull to his face. That’s probably goin’ to make him feel bad. I know you didn’t mean it, really, and Boots knows it too, but he’s gonna feel bad anyhow—”
“How ’bout the rodeo, over at Springs?” Fog asked again.
The Judge gazed sternly at his friend, Fog.
“—he’s gonna feel bad, anyhow,” the Judge continued, “just thinkin’ you mighta meant it. So why don’t you just tell him you didn’t mean it.”
“I did mean it.”
“Aw come on, Katie. I know yo
u mean what you say, but why make trouble? You can mean what you say, but why not say something else? On a nice day like this?”
The dry and lifeless air continued parching the concrete-like ground.
“It’s not a nice day.”
The Judge looked around. Then he said: “By God, Katie, you’re right! It’s a terrible day.” Then he took a careful look at Boots, his son.
“I guess you think I’m dull, too, is that right, Pa?” Boots said with a disarming laugh.
“Well . . .”
Boots raised himself to his feet. He looked cool and unruffled, with just the hint of something in his eyes.
“So,” he said. “So that’s the way it is. So that’s the way you, my own father, really feel about me. Well, it’s a fine time to be sayin’ something about it, wouldn’t you say? In front of company and all?”
“Now don’t get down on your old man,” Fog said hastily. “Let’s go to the rodeo.”
“Fog—”
“He don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Fog said. “He was just tryin’ to tell the truth.”
“Oh,” Boots said. “He don’t mean nothin’ by it. He don’t mean nothin’ by it. Well, it seems to me I just been hearin’ a lot of talk about people meanin’ what they say. I am going to assume the Judge here means what he says.”
“Yes,” the Judge said. “I mean it.”
“Yes,” Kate said, “you have many fine qualities, Boots.”
“See? He means it. My own father thinks I’m dull. And Katie thinks I’m dull. What about you, Fog? You want to make it unanimous?”
“Well Boots you are pretty doggone dull to my way of thinking. But nobody holds it against you. You got a lot of fine characteristics. Cain’t everybody be Johnny Carson.”
“Yes, there are lots duller than you, Boots,” Kate said. “Harvey Brush, for example. Now that number is really dull.”
“You’re comparin’ me with Harvey Brush?”
“Well I said he was worse, didn’t I?”
“Good God.”
“Why don’t you go inside and read your letters from that girl in Brussels?” Kate suggested.
“She doesn’t think I’m dull.”
“Probably she don’t understand English too good neither,” the Judge said. “Now go on inside and read your mail or whatever. We just want to sit silently out here for a while.”
“Goodbye.”
After Boots had gone inside the Judge said: “My son.”
“It is pretty terrible, Judge,” Kate said.
“It’s awful,” Fog agreed.
“Well, it’s not a hanging offense,” the Judge said. “Maybe we can teach him some jokes or something.”
“I’ve got to get back in the truck now,” said Kate. “Judge, you have my deepest sympathy. If I can think of anything to do, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Kate. It’s always a pleasure to see you and be with you, wherever you are. You are never dull.”
“I know that, Judge. Well, I’ll see you later.”
“O.K. Kate,” said Fog. “Goodbye. Drive carefully.”
“Goodbye Fog. Yes, I’ll be careful.”
“See you around, Kate.”
“O.K., Judge. Goodbye, Fog.”
“So long, Kate.”
“See you. You know I can’t marry that boy now, Judge. Knowing what I know.”
“I understand, Kate. I wouldn’t expect you to. I’ll just have to dig up somebody else.”
“It’s going to be hard.”
“Well, it’s not going to be easy.”
“So long, Kate,” said Fog.
“O.K., goodbye. Be good.”
“Yes,” said Fog. “I’ll try.”
“’Bye now, Judge.”
“O.K., Katie.”
“Wonder how come I never noticed it before?”
“Well don’t dwell on it, Kate. See you in town.”
“O.K., adios.”
“Goodbye, Kate.”
“It’s terrible but we’ve got it into focus now, haven’t we?”
“I’m afraid we do.”
“I sure would like to be of help, Judge.”
“I know you would, Katie, and I appreciate it. I just don’t see what can be done about it, right off.”
“It’s just his nature, probably.”
“You’re probably right. I was never dull.”
“I know you weren’t, Judge. Nobody blames you.”
“Well, it’s a problem.”
“Quite a thorny one. But he’ll be O.K., Judge. He’s a good boy, basically.”
“I know that, Kate. Well, we’ll just have to wrestle with it.”
“O.K., Judge. I’ll see you later, O.K.?”
“Right.”
“Behave yourself, Fog.”
“Right, Katie.”
“I’ll see y’all. Bye-bye.”
“Goodbye, Kate.”
“You all right, Judge?”
“I’m fine, Katie. Just a little taken aback by what we’ve found out here today.”
“Oh. O.K. Well, take care of yourself. You too, Fog.”
“I will, Kate.”
“O.K. See you two.”
“Goodbye, Kate.”
“You sure you don’t want to come into town with me? I’ll make you some tamale pie.”
“That’s O.K. Kate we got lots of stuff to eat right here.”
“Oh. O.K. ’Bye.”
The truck moved off into the dust.
“Look!” said the Judge. “She’s waving.”
“Wave back to her,” Fog said.
“I am,” said the Judge. “Look, I’m waving.”
“I see it,” said Fog. “Can she see you?”
“Maybe if I stand up,” the Judge said. “Do you think she can see me now?”
“Not if she’s watchin’ the road.”
“She’s too young for us,” the Judge said. He stopped waving.
“Depends on how you look at it,” said Fog. “You want to go on over to the rodeo now?”
“I don’t want to go to no rodeo,” said the Judge. “All that youth.”
Rebecca
REBECCA LIZARD was trying to change her ugly, reptilian, thoroughly unacceptable last name.
“Lizard,” said the judge. “Lizard, Lizard, Lizard. Lizard. There’s nothing wrong with it if you say it enough times. You can’t clutter up the court’s calendar with trivial little minor irritations. And there have been far too many people changing their names lately. Changing your name countervails the best interests of the telephone company, the electric company, and the United States government. Motion denied.”
Lizard in tears.
Lizard led from the courtroom. A chrysanthemum of Kleenex held under her nose.
“Shaky lady,” said a man, “are you a schoolteacher?”
Of course she’s a schoolteacher, you idiot. Can’t you see the poor woman’s all upset? Why don’t you leave her alone?
“Are you a homosexual lesbian? Is that why you never married?”
Christ, yes, she’s a homosexual lesbian, as you put it. Would you please shut your face?
Rebecca went to the damned dermatologist (a new damned dermatologist), but he said the same thing the others had said. “Greenish,” he said, “slight greenishness, genetic anomaly, nothing to be done, I’m afraid, Mrs. Lizard.”
“Miss Lizard.”
“Nothing to be done, Miss Lizard.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Can I give you a little something for your trouble?”
“Fifty dollars.”
When Rebecca got home the retroactive rent increase was waiting for her, coiled in her mailbox like a pupil about to strike.
Must get some more Kleenex. Or a Ph.D.
No other way.
She thought about sticking her head in the oven. But it was an electric oven.
Rebecca’s lover, Hilda, came home late.
“How’d it go?” Hilda asked, referring to the day.
“Lousy.”
“Hmm,” Hilda said, and quietly mixed strong drinks of busthead for the two of them.
Hilda is a very good-looking woman. So is Rebecca. They love each other—an incredibly dangerous and delicate business, as we know. Hilda has long blond hair and is perhaps a shade the more beautiful. Of course Rebecca has a classic and sexual figure which attracts huge admiration from every beholder.
“You’re late,” Rebecca said. “Where were you?”
“I had a drink with Stephanie.”
“Why did you have a drink with Stephanie?”
“She stopped by my office and said let’s have a drink.”
“Where did you go?”
“The Barclay.”
“How is Stephanie?”
“She’s fine.”
“Why did you have to have a drink with Stephanie?”
“I was ready for a drink.”
“Stephanie doesn’t have a slight greenishness, is that it? Nice, pink Stephanie.”
Hilda rose and put an excellent C. & W. album on the record-player. It was David Rogers’s “Farewell to the Ryman,” Atlantic SD 7283. It contains such favorites as “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” “Great Speckled Bird,” “I’m Movin’ On,” and “Walking the Floor over You.” Many great Nashville personnel appear on this record.
“Pinkness is not everything,” Hilda said. “And Stephanie is a little bit boring. You know that.”
“Not so boring that you don’t go out for drinks with her.”
“I am not interested in Stephanie.”
“As I was leaving the courthouse,” Rebecca said, “a man unzipped my zipper.”
David Rogers was singing “Oh please release me, let me go.”
“What were you wearing?”
“What I’m wearing now.”
“So he had good taste,” Hilda said, “for a creep.” She hugged Rebecca, on the sofa. “I love you,” she said.
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