But Marcia wouldn’t think of that. “Enough,” she whispered. “No more. Stop.”
She crawled away from the sink, across the room, on to her bed, which tried with a few tawdry cushions to dissemble itself as a couch for the daytime. Her breathing came hard, and there was a curious constriction in her throat. She was sweating incontinently.
From the Shchapalovs’ room came scuffling sounds, a door banged, running feet, and then a louder, muffled noise, perhaps a body falling down stairs. The landlady’s voice: “What the hell do you think you’re—” Other voices overriding hers. Incoherencies, and footsteps returning up the stairs. Once more, the landlady: “There ain’t no boogs here, for heaven’s sake. The boogs is in your heads. You’ve got the d.t.’s, that’s what. And it wouldn’t be any wonder, if there were boogs. The place is filthy. Look at that crap on the floor. Filth! I’ve stood just about enough from you. Tomorrow you move out, hear? This used to be a decent building.”
The Shchapalovs did not protest their eviction. Indeed, they did not wait for the morrow to leave. They quitted their apartment with only a suitcase, a laundry bag, and an electric toaster. Marcia watched them go down the steps through her half-opened door. It’s done, she thought. It’s all over.
With a sigh of almost sensual pleasure, she turned on the lamp beside the bed, then the other lamps. The room gleamed immaculately. Deciding to celebrate her victory, she went to the cupboard, where she kept a bottle of crème de menthe.
The cupboard was full of roaches.
She had not told them where to go, where not to go, when they left the Shchapalov apartment. It was her own fault.
The great silent mass of roaches regarded Marcia calmly, and it seemed to the distracted girl that she could read their thoughts, their thought rather, for they had but a single thought. She could read it as clearly as she could read the illuminated billboard for Chock-Full-O’-Nuts outside her window. It was delicate as music issuing from a thousand tiny pipes. It was an ancient musicbox opened after centuries of silence: “We love you we love you we love you.”
Something strange happened inside Marcia then, something unprecedented: she responded.
“I love you too,” she replied. “Oh, I love you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me.”
From every corner of Manhattan, from the crumbling walls of Harlem, from restaurants on 56th Street, from warehouses along the river, from sewers and from orange peels moldering in garbage cans, the loving roaches came forth and began to crawl toward their mistress.
<
* * * *
I miss a lot. There are stories I don’t find out about till two years— or two weeks—later. And then there are the ones that get away. Usually this is for contractual reasons—exclusive rights granted elsewhere, or problems about contract provisions and prices. Sometimes the reasons are purely editorial: Anthology editors have publisher’s editors, and authors have agents and magazine and book editors) it is surprising how many people can say no.
This year there’s a new reason: Tom Lehrer doesn’t answer his mail.
Right here is where those two songs from the 1965 Lehrer album. That Was The Year That Was, would have gone, if they hadn’t gotten away. As it is, I can only urge you to go hear (or even buy) the record for yourselves. Well, maybe a little more than that.
The one I wanted to go after “The Roaches” was a catchy little calypso called “Pollution”: If you visit American city, You will find it very pretty. Just two things of which you must beware: Don’t drink the water, and don’t breathe the air.
(Of course, Tom Disch had to go to Spain to get hepatitis. When he wrote about his writing, publishing, and travel plans he added sadly: . . . for the next year I am going to be the only teetotaling swinger in Europe. Doctor’s orders. Germany, Spain, England, France/ bier, Jerez, ale, vin, kaput. . .)
Some of the other topics treated in Professor Lehrer’s latest lesson on contemporary culture are New Math, National Brotherhood Week, the folk-singing rebels, how-to-sell religion, the U. S. Marines, and World War III in a song called “So long. Mom ...” which echoes some of the more reassuring sentiments of “The Survivor”: . . . But while you swelter,/Down there in your shelter,/You can see me/On your TV . . ./Watch Brinkelly and Huntilly/Describing contrapuntally/ The cities we have lost./No need for you/To miss a moment/Of the agonizing holocaust. . .
Which should set the mood for “Game,” a story less gentle than it may at first appear—as anyone familiar with Barthelme’s earlier work will understand. (Come Back, Dr. Caligari, Little, Brown, 1964. His first novel, Indian Uprising, is forthcoming from Atheneum.)
And my thanks to Tom Disch, for suggesting the story.
* * * *
GAME
DONALD BARTHELME
Shotwell keeps the jacks and the rubber ball in his attaché case and will not allow me to play with them. He plays with them, alone, sitting on the floor near the console hour after hour, chanting “onesies, twosies, threesies, foursies” in a precise, well-modulated voice, not so loud as to be annoying, not so soft as to allow me to forget. I point out to Shotwell that two can derive more enjoyment from playing jacks than one, but he is not interested. I have asked repeatedly to be allowed to play by myself, but he simply shakes his head. “Why?” I ask. “They’re mine,” he says. And when he has finished, when he has sated himself, back they go into the attaché case.
It is unfair but there is nothing I can do about it. I am aching to get my hands on them.
Shotwell and I watch the console. Shotwell and I live under the ground and watch the console. If certain events take place upon the console, we are to insert our keys in the appropriate locks and turn our keys. Shotwell has a key and I have a key. If we turn our keys simultaneously the bird flies, certain switches are activated and the bird flies. But the bird never flies. In one hundred thirty-three days the bird has not flown. Meanwhile Shotwell and I watch each other. We each wear a .45 and if Shotwell behaves strangely I am supposed to shoot him. If I behave strangely Shotwell is supposed to shoot me. We watch the console and think about shooting each other and think about the bird. Shotwell’s behavior with the jacks is strange. Is it strange? I do not know. Perhaps he is merely a selfish bastard, perhaps his character is flawed, perhaps his childhood was twisted. I do not know.
Each of us wears a .45 and each of us is supposed to shoot the other if the other is behaving strangely. How strangely is strangely? I do not know. In addition to the .45 I have a .38 which Shotwell does not know about concealed in my attaché case, and Shotwell has a .25 caliber Beretta which I do not know about strapped to his right calf. Sometimes instead of watching the console I pointedly watch Shotwell’s .45, but this is simply a ruse, simply a maneuver, in reality I am watching his hand when it dangles in the vicinity of his right calf. If he decides I am behaving strangely he will shoot me not with the .45 but with the Beretta. Similarly Shotwell pretends to watch my .45 but he is really watching my hand resting idly atop my attaché case, my hand resting atop my attaché case, my hand. My hand resting idly atop my attaché case.
In the beginning I took care to behave normally. So did Shotwell. Our behavior was painfully normal. Norms of politeness, consideration, speech and personal habits were scrupulously observed. But then it became apparent that an error had been made, that our relief was not going to arrive. Owing to an oversight. Owing to an oversight we have been here for one hundred thirty-three days. When it became clear that an error had been made, that we were not to be relieved, the norms were relaxed. Definitions of normality were redrawn in the agreement of January 1, called by us, The Agreement. Uniform regulations were relaxed, and mealtimes are no longer rigorously scheduled. We eat when we are hungry and sleep when we are tired. Considerations of rank and precedence were temporarily put aside, a handsome concession on the part of Shotwell, who is a captain, whereas I am only a first lieutenant. One of us watches the console at all times rather t
han two of us watching the console at all times, except when we are both on our feet. One of us watches the console at all times and if the bird flies then that one wakes the other and we turn our keys in the locks simultaneously and the bird flies. Our system involves a delay of perhaps twelve seconds but I do not care because I am not well, and Shotwell does not care because he is not himself. After the agreement was signed Shotwell produced the jacks and the rubber ball from his attaché case, and I began to write a series of descriptions of forms occurring in nature, such as a shell, a leaf, a stone, an animal. On the walls.
Shotwell plays jacks and I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls. Shotwell is enrolled in a USAFI course which leads to a master’s degree in business administration from the University of Wisconsin (although we are not in Wisconsin, we are in Utah, Montana or Idaho). When we went down it was in either Utah, Montana or Idaho, I don’t remember. We have been here for one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. The pale green reinforced concrete walls sweat and the air conditioning zips on and off erratically and Shotwell reads Introduction to Marketing by Lassiter and Munk, making notes with a blue ballpoint pen. Shotwell is not himself but I do not know it, he presents a calm aspect and reads Introduction to Marketing and makes his exemplary notes with a blue ballpoint pen, meanwhile controlling the .38 in my attaché case with one-third of his attention. I am not well.
We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. Although now we are not sure what is oversight, what is plan. Perhaps the plan is for us to stay here permanently, or if not permanently at least for a year, for three hundred sixty-five days. Or if not for a year for some number of days known to them and not known to us, such as two hundred days. It may be that they are pleased with us, with our behavior, not in every detail but in sum. Perhaps the whole thing is very successful, perhaps the whole thing is a experiment and the experiment is very successful. I do not know. But I suspect that the only way they can persuade sun-loving creatures into their pale green sweating reinforced concrete rooms under the ground is to say that the system is twelve hours on, twelve hours off. And then lock us below for some number of days known to them and not known to us. We eat well although the frozen enchiladas are damp when defrosted and the frozen devil’s food cake is sour and untasty. We sleep uneasily and acrimoniously. I hear Shotwell shouting in his sleep, objecting, denouncing, cursing sometimes, weeping sometimes, in his sleep. When Shotwell sleeps I try to pick the lock on his attaché case, so as to get at the jacks. Thus far I have been unsuccessful. Nor has Shotwell been successful in picking the locks on my attaché case so as to get at the .38. I have seen the marks on the shiny surface. I laughed, in the latrine, pale green walls sweating and the air conditioning whispering, in the latrine. I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls, scratching them on the tile surface with a diamond. The diamond is a two and one-half carat solitaire I had in my attaché case when we went down. It was for Lucy. The south wall of the room containing the console is already covered. I have described a shell, a leaf, a stone, animals, a baseball bat. I am aware that the baseball bat is not a natural form. Yet I described it. “The baseball bat,” I said, “is typically made of wood. It is typically one meter in length or a little longer, fat at on end, tapering to afford a comfortable grip at the other end. The end with the handhold typically offers a slight rim, or lip, at the nether extremity, to prevent slippage.” My description of the baseball bat ran to 4500 words, all scratched with a diamond on the south wall. Does Shotwell read what I have written? I do not know. I am aware that Shotwell regards my writing-behaviour as strange. Yet it is no stranger than his jacks-behaviour, or the day he appeared in black bathing trunks with the .25 caliber Beretta strapped to his right calf and stood over the console, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the two locks. He could not do it, I had already tried, standing over the console with my two arms outstretched, the distance is too great. I was moved to comment but did not comment, comment would have provoked counter-comment, comment would have led God knows where. They had in their infinite patience, in their infinite foresight, in their infinite wisdom already imagined a man standing over the console with his two arms outstretched, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the locks.
Shotwell is not himself. He has made certain overtures. The burden of his message is not clear. It has something to do with the keys, with the locks. Shotwell is a strange person. He appears to be less affected by our situation than I. He goes about his business stolidly, watching the console, studying Introduction to Marketing, bouncing his rubber ball on the floor in a steady, rhythmical, conscientious manner. He appears to be less affected by our situation than I am. He is stolid. He says nothing. But he has made certain overtures, certain overtures have been made. I am not sure that I understand them. They have something to do with the keys, with the locks. Shotwell has something in mind. Stolidly he shucks the shiny silver paper from the frozen enchiladas, stolidly he stuffs them into the electric oven. But he has something in mind. But there must be a quid pro quo. I insist on a quid pro quo. I have something in mind.
I am not well. I do not know our target. They do not tell us for which city the bird is targeted. I do not know. That is planning. That is not my responsibility. My responsibility is to watch the console and when certain events take place upon the console, turn my key in the lock. Shotwell bounces the rubber ball on the floor in a steady, stolid, rhythmical manner. I am aching to get my hands on the ball, on the jacks. We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. I write on the walls. Shotwell chants “onesies, twosies, threesies, foursies” in a precise, well-modulated voice. Now he cups the jacks and the rubber ball in his hands and rattles them suggestively. I do not know for which city the bird is targeted. Shotwell is not himself.
Sometimes I cannot sleep. Sometimes Shotwell cannot sleep. Sometimes when Shotwell cradles me in his arms and rocks me to sleep, singing Brahms’ “Guten abend, gut Nacht,” or I cradle Shotwell in my arms and rock him to sleep, singing, I understand what it is Shotwell wishes me to do. At such moments we are very close. But only if he will give me the jacks. That is fair. There is something he wants me to do with my key, while he does something with his key. But only if he will give me my turn. That is fair. I am not well.
<
* * * *
We erect tombstones for our dead relatives and build monuments to our dead leaders. When a beloved writer dies, we read his works, again. A writer, if what he says is worth the hearing, and if his skill is sufficient to make it worth hearing twice, builds his own memorial while he lives.
Shirley Jackson, that second-sighted recorder of tragedy and terror and of the gibbering courage with which we greet them, died, too soon, in August, 1965—and I began to understand that if is neither cynicism nor innate perversity that causes publishers to rush out new editions of old books before the ink on the obits is dry. It is the need we have, the readers, knowing there will be no new work, to reassure ourselves that what remains is still intact, and did not wither with the flesh.
So it was that Shirley Jackson was in my thoughts when the Big Blackout hit New York. I never met her but I could almost hear her chuckle at the inevitability of that particular bad joke. I was thinking of “Pillar of Salt,” in which she prophesied, years earlier (by way of a dismembered corpse and other horrors), the crumbling disintegration of New York.
The city, and the people in it, were all “falling apart.” (. . . Passing through the outskirts of the city, she thought. It’s as though everything were traveling so fast that the solid stuff couldn’t stand it and were going to pieces under the strain, cornices blowing off and windows caving in. . . )
She did not mention a power failure. But of course it Is not just the blackout, and not just New York. It is transit strikes and news strikes and power failures and blizzards, water shortages, telephone foulups, train wrecks, plane crashes, H-bomb
s in the Mediterranean, the long long list of computer-funnies (the post office in Providence where a curious reporter found he could send his mail with crayoned stamps; the people gelling multiple income-tax rebates) the court-clerk-computer in Phoenix listing convictions for people who hadn’t been tried—those things). Or, the telephone: How many wrong numbers have you been getting lately? Do you find direct dialing saves you time? How often have you acted on information from a telephone “service” (train, bus, store, anything) only to find when you got wherever it was to do whatever you had in mind, that the information was wrong?
(It’s not you: It’s the system. Everything’s falling apart.)
Another mordant prophet of our times, Russell Baker, began his November 18th (post-blackout) column with: The end came on Sept. 17, 1973 . . . and wound up . . . Which, as everybody knows, is why nobody lives in cities any more.
In the middle, the mayor of New York says, with justifiable indignation: “In the old days, when the machine was running this city right, it never snowed in September.” And the wise press advisor replies: “True. But the machine is like everything else in New York these days. It doesn’t work.”
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