Goldenrod

by Peter Gault

  I passed the University Center, turned onto a walkway, and headed in the direction of the Arts Building. I reached into my shorts, pulled on my knob, and adjusted my penis to face left. I hate the way a penis tends to shrivel during intense physical exertion. There was a stairway which was densely populated by leering and lascivious females, and I bounded up three steps at a time. My leg muscles strained and burned as I arched over the final steps. Beautiful women eyed me seductively, beautiful women with unattractive, dull-looking men.

  This was one of my pet peeves. Why did so many enticing young women choose such uninteresting boyfriends when many of them could have someone like myself? It didn’t make sense. I figured they had known each other since early childhood at a time when they had equal sex appeal, and the woman blossomed and the man didn’t. The relationship was a bad habit, like thumb sucking. They stayed together because it was easy and safe.

  I drifted off the campus and onto neighboring residential streets. It was boardinghouse land. Stockton families often rented a room to a student. I was sweating heavily. I stopped and hunched over to catch my breath, dizzy and exhausted. I always overdid it when I had an audience. A little girl skipped past me. I looked up. She was about five years old. I decided to walk for a short distance to regain my breath.

  The little girl walked ten yards ahead of me. I kept pace with her. She marched along in her imaginary world, brown ringlets bouncing down her back, her feet slapping the pavement noisily. She was a miniature adult. It was difficult to believe someone that tiny was a real person. What was going on in her little brain? What would she grow up to be? Who would she grow up to love? I hoped she’d grow up to love someone like me.

  That paternal urge rose inside me again, like a falcon spreading its wings and taking flight. I wanted to protect her from the roving bands of perverts and child molesters who stalked the streets. I wanted to prevent her from falling down, from falling off the roofs of apartment buildings. She turned randomly, left, left, right, right. It was getting dark. I followed her, afraid to leave her alone. She must have been lost.

  I barked loudly, two or three times.

  She stopped, turned around, barked back. I barked. She barked. We barked indiscriminately and emphatically; we barked at each other, at fate, at the absurdity of life.

  “Hi,” I called. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” she said. As I drew closer, I noticed dirty streaks down her face from crying. She had a pretty face, with a button nose. One of her running-shoe laces was undone, wrapping around her other foot occasionally and tripping her. She wore a tank top which was cute. She knew she was supposed to cover her tits, but her tits were non-existent.

  “Just walkin’?”

  “Ya.”

  “Me too,” I said. I wondered why she didn’t admit to being lost. I repeated, “Where are you going?”

  “You already asked me that,” she said. She was a smart little kid.

  “Where do you live?” I said.

  “Twenty-nine Elora Street.” She was miles away from home and walking in the wrong direction.

  “If I had a car I’d drive you home,” I said.

  “Why don’t you drive me home anyway?”

  “Because I don’t have a car.”

  “Oh,” she said and started to cry. She thought all big people had a car. I reached down and did up her shoelace, and she immediately calmed down.

  “You’re walking in the wrong direction,” I said, taking her by the hand and turning her around. “I’ll walk you home. You shouldn’t be walking the streets when it’s dark. And you shouldn’t be talking to strangers.”

  She nodded. She could bark, cry, and feel bored within a span of five minutes.

  As I walked down the street holding the little girl’s hand, I started thinking about the soap Elizabeth gave me to use when I slept over at her house. It was called Pears soap, and it was almost clear enough to see through and had a different kind of smell. Pears soap became popular later, but no one had ever heard of it at the time. Elizabeth discovered it before anyone else. That was the type of woman Elizabeth was. She would be the first one to discover an interesting bar of soap. That was one of the reasons I fell in love with her. I needed to find another woman who could do that.

  A few months later I had returned to Elizabeth’s place for a night. I couldn’t believe it, she gave me a different kind of soap to use in the shower. It was blue with dark blue stripes through it and a distinct smell of its own. She had done it again. I loved that smell. God, I love her for that! I loved that soap because I had never seen or smelt it before. Elizabeth came up with these things out of nowhere. Anyone else would have had to spend half their life sniffing bars of soap in a drug store, but not Elizabeth. She wouldn’t even say anything about it. She’d just give me this great bar of soap I had never seen before and not say a word.

  “Shit,” I exclaimed. Ahead of me, walking towards me, was Penny. I didn’t want to face her, chat like old friends, pretend I liked her. I quickly pulled the little girl across someone’s front yard and hid in a clump of bushes. I waited for Penny to pass.

  “Come out of those bushes,” shouted a deep male voice.

  “Keep your filthy fuckin’ hands off the kid,” said another deep male voice from the opposite direction.

  I looked out and saw two plain-clothes policemen, one on each side of the bushes, guns drawn and pointing at me. A fat woman was standing on the sidewalk. Three police cars squealed to a stop in front of the house. I was thrown against a tree and frisked, which didn’t take long since I was only wearing a pair of shorts. Penny arrived on the scene. I didn’t look at her. The little girl was scared by the police and crying.

  “You idiots,” I shouted at the police in exasperation. I finally looked at Penny. “You’re a jerk and an asshole and you don’t deserve to be alive,” I said. I felt the whole problem was her fault.

  They gave me the spiel that you hear on television, about having the right to remain silent, and pushed me into the police car.

  “Is this when you take me to the station, put a paper bag over my head, and torture me?” I asked.

  “You watch too many movies,” said the police officer.

  “I saw that weirdo barking at the girl,” said the fat lady.

  “You’d be attractive if you lost about two hundred and eighty pounds,” I said to her sarcastically.

  The interrogation lasted hours. They asked me a thousand questions and made me sign a thousand pieces of paper. They asked the same question four and five and six times. A doctor made me pull down my shorts and put a powder on my genitals. The powder proved I hadn’t raped a little girl. In another room, they asked the little girl questions and investigated her genitals. Heather was phoned. She told them I had no abnormal sexual quirks. Evidence mounted in my favor.

  “You idiots,” I said to the police, exasperated.

  14. The Fringe

  My home is a single room in the downtown core of a big city. The kitchen and bathroom are shared, but my little room is all mine. It’s my kingdom, my creation, shaped to fit the curves of my personality like a finely tailored suit. Spanning one wall, in contrasting primary colors, is the word “arts.” I stole the idea from the “Happy Anniversary” streamer Elizabeth made for her parents. The other three walls are hidden under a matted array of posters, paintings, and looming shelves of second-hand novels. Opening a new book is like breaking into a virgin. I prefer to read things that are sleazy, tattered, second-hand. I have collections of plays piled in a corner and propped along the windowsill.

  I sleep on a futon because I like to be close to the ground. The futon is large, firm, and encourages deeper penetration during sexual intercourse. There are two framed self-portraits of Vincent Van Gogh and a life-sized poster of Marlon Brando in his prime. There’s a desk and a comfortable chair for reading. There’s a mountain of wax on a small table, different colored veins of wax solidified in abstract designs pouring over the edge of the table a
nd down the legs. A half-melted candle is stuck into the top burning brightly, casting monstrous shadows across the room. There’s one other item centrally located against the longest wall. It is a full-length mirror.

  “I like to be a little person, unable to affect people,” I say to the shadowy reflection of my naked body.

  Although my hair is thin and getting thinner, my fear of going bald was slightly premature. No obvious signs of baldness are visible in the obscure lighting of my room. No evidence of physical deterioration mars my person. I have sexual magnetism and the talent to be a great actor. Modeling pays the rent. When I can’t find work modeling, I pile boxes. A box moves down a conveyor belt, G-34 stamped on the side, and I put it in the G-34 pile. I work in a basement warehouse with artificial lighting and no windows. The ceiling is low and my head almost touches the long tubular lights. It makes me feel like a marijuana plant. I don’t know what’s in the boxes. I don’t care. I meet interesting women in strange bars. I try to seduce them and often succeed. I look for acting jobs.

  I’ve heard that clinging to a single dream for too long is a crime, and I believe it. The price tag is too high. There is room enough inside a person for many dreams. But Elizabeth holds onto something inside me, stubbornly, like a mule refusing to move. I’ve heard that you’re supposed to face and define and resolve things that bother you, and I believe that too. I’m a great facer and definer and resolver, perhaps the best in the world, but the past still plagues me like the withdrawal symptoms of a drug addict. There is one thing that cheerful, smiling, middle-class couples refuse to admit. A dream doesn’t just disappear, no matter how much facing and defining and resolving you do. One dream extinguishes another. One love extinguishes another. These couples don’t want to believe that the hold they have on each other is so tenuous.

  “Elizabeth is asleep in the closet!” I say to my reflection. “Don’t disturb Elizabeth; she’s sleeping in the closet.”

  When will my time of joy and liberation arrive? I’m capable of moments of soaring happiness and jubilation. Freedom will come to me. Freedom will come on a sunny day, on a boat in a vast body of water with a full wind in the sails and Tchaikovsky blaring from hidden speakers, echoing off the clouds. Freedom will come in a field of long grass as high as my shoulders. Freedom will come in the middle of the big city at a bar surrounded by warm people and loving music. Freedom will come in the form of a woman. It’ll always involve other people. Independence is a myth created by little people who want to be big people. I don’t believe in Independence or God. I believe in little people. I enjoy my little moments. I don’t intend to jump off the roof of an apartment building.

  During my bouts of nostalgia, I often think of Phuc Wildfong. Phuc quit hockey the same time as me and teamed up with two of my sisters, Candy and June, in operating a home for rape victims and battered women. Phuc has a sincere sympathy for people who’ve been fucked and gang-banged by society. He’s one of the few men in the business. I see my sister Ruth regularly, the tall one, closest to me in age who is sexually attracted to midgets. She tells me that Phuc mentions my name every time she sees him. Ruth lives with Angel Pie in the same neighborhood as Wendy, Mary, and May. Angel Pie is as short as ever. Phuc is as oriental as ever. Ruth has taken to walking on stilts for a hobby. It was suggested to her as a joke by me. She takes the things I say too seriously.

  “Orientals never lie,” I say to myself. “And they have no fear of dying.” I’m going to give Phuc Wildfong a phone call one of these days.

  Bruno is the only player from the Dixie Queens who still plays hockey. He’s a second-rate goon in the American League known only for his ability to butcher the opposition with his stick. Since I don’t play hockey anymore, Bruno feels sorry for me. I feel sorry for him. If you’re not a superstar, hockey is a lousy way of life. Bruno had one moment of greatness. He played one game in the NHL and got one shift. He was hired to break heads. He charged around the ice cross-checking players on the back of the neck. That’s Bruno’s specialty. He was called for a five-minute misconduct penalty and never got on the ice again. I watched the game at Ruth’s place because I don’t own a television. The camera flashed through the crowd looking for pretty girls, but for some reason stopped at pathetic old Winfield. They did a close-up of Winfield’s fat head and bloated face.

  “Winfield! You’re as ugly as ever,” I exclaimed, getting up and turning off the set.

  Steve Lawson didn’t graduate from the University of Stockton. He was lured away by big money and high times to play hockey in Germany. Hockey in Germany is gaining popularity. By going to Germany, Lawson has thrown away any possibility of playing in the NHL. Lawson is smart. He knows he’s good, but not quite good enough, and intends to make the most of his hockey career. He is a hero in a foreign land. At home he would be another frustrated nobody in the American League clutching aimlessly at the fruits of fame and fortune.

  “I want the courage to be an absolute nobody,” I say to myself. “Courage! Where can you buy that stuff?”

  Phil and I fell out of touch after Elizabeth’s funeral, but now I visit him occasionally. He is married and has a baby boy. He lives in a different world than me, a world of hairspray commercials, subdivisions, getting together for a beer with the boys, Saturday afternoon sports events on TV, sex two nights a week after the eleven o’clock news, a respectable position in the sales department, and lineups at Sears. He thinks reading is for women and gets pissed off at the machine when he loses at Pac Man. There’s nothing wrong with the way he lives. It’s narrow, uninteresting, and depressingly self-satisfied, but there’s nothing wrong with it. Phil and his wife call me “Uncle Ken” around their baby. I must admit that I like being called “Uncle Ken.”

  In a certain way, I’m envious of Phil. He seems content with his life. He’s as stable as a tree. I’m a bundle of need and desire, sexually, financially, emotionally. Phil and I like to reminisce, but we never mention Elizabeth. I think Phil is in love with Elizabeth. Sometimes I’m convinced of it. When that thought gets lodged in my mind, I feel I understand Phil. I feel fraternal and protective. I want to kiss his baby. I feel we have never lost that high school bond which was once powerful and uplifting.

  Phil keeps me informed on tidbits of gossip concerning Paul and Ross. Paul has gastritis and drinks a solution of honey and vinegar every morning to reduce his farting. Ross impregnated a fifteen-year-old girl. She had a miscarriage in his bed. He put the fetus in a jar of ethyl alcohol and keeps it on his shelf. He acts like a proud parent, uses the fetus as a center piece when people are over for dinner, and brags that his child never cries in the night or wets the bed. He has the perfect child. He asks the guests if they want him to heat up the fetus for dessert. It’d be tasty with ice cream on top. When Phil is in the same room as the fetus, Ross calls him “Uncle Phil.” Paul hasn’t changed, but Ross has developed a perverse sense of humor.

  Blind Chuck graduated the same time as me. Chuck was walking to school on the final day of classes. Suddenly, his seeing-eye dog got a little pink erection and jumped on a cocker spaniel. The cocker spaniel was blind and being walked by a beautiful seeing-eye woman. Chuck was deeply moved and thought it was wonderful that a seeing woman was walking a blind dog. As their dogs humped, Chuck got to know the woman and turned on the charm. Two weeks later, I was invited to their wedding which I gratefully declined. Everyone from the Institute for the Blind was invited, and I knew that if I attended I would be convinced of my own blindness by the end of the evening. I mailed them two flea collars for a wedding present.

  My fanatical passion for dogs has resurfaced. It’s not a sexual attraction. It’s spiritual, a spiritual kinship. Dogs love to love, love to be loved, love to make a room vibrate with love. They’re loyal and protective. I want a dog more than anything else in the world, excpet perhaps the right kind of girlfriend. If I had a girlfriend and a dog, I’d have the courage to tackle any project that confronted me. I couldn’t keep a dog in my little room. Some ca
llow fools suggest I get a cat. How insensitive! Cats are nothing compared to dogs. One dog is worth a thousand cats. I’m abusive to cats. Whenever I see a cat, I bark and stomp my foot on the ground. Some cats run away, and some just stare at me. The only surviving dog in my family is Tanka. Whiskey was hit by a car. Tanka will probably outlive the whole Harrison family.

  Henry Kissing-Balls and I have remained close friends. Henry’s novel has recently been published. I give readings of his first chapter on the poetry reading circuit and other events to promote his book. It’s the only regular work I get as a real actor. I give a dramatic reading. I shout and whisper and cry and pull down my pants. The crowd loves it. There are always a few pseudo-intellectual-frustrated-poet types who complain that the reading is too much fun and entertainment. Their argument is tediously predictable. Great literature can’t be fun and entertaining. Great literature must be verbose and humorless.

  “It’s good for what it is. I just don’t like that kind of stuff,” said this stranger to me after a reading. He thought he was liberal-minded because he wore a beard. He probably graduated from English Literature at some university and was programmed into thinking that serious literature must be about misty moors. “I guess different people like different things,” he said, trying to impress me with his generous spirit and open-mindedness.

  “Right! And some people have good taste and some people’s taste is up their ass,” I said. You don’t tangle with an artist’s ego.

  Everything has come together for Henry. When he finished college he knew exactly what he wanted, and he took the most direct route possible to get it. Henry surprised a lot of people, especially me. The most surprised person of all is Henry himself. Henry has more than writing ability, more than talent. There’s a magic in what he puts down on paper. He is often chastised for being offensive and obscene, yet no one can deny there is something strikingly honest about what he writes. He can write, but he can’t read. He tried to give his own reading once and it was a disaster. He stumbled over every word and bobbed with mounting severity, repeatedly cracking his head against the wall behind him. He was semi-conscious by the time he staggered off the platform. Reading and writing involve two different muscles.