But something keeps whispering to Ardy that by another measure it is merely one step closer to the end.
The rumbling grows louder, seemingly emanating from behind Ardy. He turns warily, expecting a mirage.
A very solid, if ramshackle, bulbous-nosed old Ford pickup truck, its red paint flaking off, is bearing down on him, apparently with no intention of stopping until he has been squashed flat beneath its wheels.
Ardy hops to the pebbled right shoulder of the lane and begins to wave his arms in desperate semaphore. The driver is hidden behind windshield glare, but apparently he can see Ardy okay, for the truck begins to slow. Ardy ceases his frantic gestures. The truck pulls up abreast of Ardy and stops, its noisy motor sputtering gamely.
The passenger door is shoved open from within. Without even stopping to peer inside, Ardy accepts the silent offer and jumps in. The truck resumes its bone-rattling motion.
Ardy looks to his left. The first thing he sees is an old-fashioned black doctor’s bag beside him on the seat. His gaze travels up thence to the driver.
The man behind the wheel is in his mid-sixties. He is big and corpulent, with a reddened nose and silver hair and droopy jowls, much like that famous vaudevillian, W C. Fields. He is dressed in a tweedy suit with a knitted woolen vest. The suit must once have been expensive, but now the jacket is pocked with holes from falling cigarette ash, stained with various gravies, and dusted with flakes of tobacco. The knees of the suit are smeared with what appears to be mud, manure, and straw.
Removing his eyes briefly from the road, the man gazes at Ardy. “Son,” he declaims rather floridly, “you look dead beat.”
A tingling cloak of relief descends on Ardy’s weary shoulders. He realizes that, quite contrary to his normal attitude, he had been half expecting some sort of accusation or rebuke. How pleasant to receive instead this insightful understanding and sympathy! Ardy’s breast begins to fill again with his wonted cheerful optimism.
“I am, sir. I have had a most distressing set of experiences, culminating in a long hungry walk, and I thought I was done for until you arrived.”
Waving one beefy chapped hand negligently, the man says, “It’s no big thing to offer someone a lift, son. Just common fellow-feeling. That’s the kind of thing that made this country great. One competent individual lending a helping hand to another. None of this government welfare stuff. Just man-to-man charity.”
Recalling salient advice from the Digest that “The only three topics you should, never discuss are religion, politics and a woman’s age,” and reluctant to inadvertently broach any of these touchy subjects, Ardy merely replies, “Well, I truly appreciate it.”
Unexpectedly slumping a trifle, the man passes a hand across his brow, brushing aside the shock of white hair there. “Damn, I’m plenty tired myself! That’s the reason I didn’t see you at first, son. Almost asleep at the wheel, I guess. I was up all night with the Andersons’ cow. Damn rough delivery there, I don’t mind telling you. But a fine calf in the end.”
“I take it that you are a veterinarian, sir.”
“Right you are, son. Herbert Spencer’s the name, curing hoof-rot’s the game.”
Doctor Spencer extends his left hand across his chest toward Ardy. In a breach of courtesy, Ardy can do naught but stare in stunned disbelief.
“This, this, this —” splutters Ardy. “This is just unbelievable.” He clutches Doctor Spencer’s rough hand in both of his own and pumps it fervently. “Sir, I cannot tell you what this meeting means to me. Ever since I read of your career many years ago, your life of selfless devotion has shone as a beacon in the night for me. My goodness, it’s a miracle, our meeting like this! This country — I just can’t believe it.”
“You must be talking about that old Digest article,” responds Doctor Spencer, with somewhat less excitement and pride than Ardy would have imagined he would exhibit. “Well, I’m glad my humble old life meant something to you, son. But everything changes, you know. It sure does. And lots of times, not for the better.”
Ardy is upset by Doctor Spencer’s implicit tale of woe. He wants to inquire further but in the end refrains, thinking it might be too painful for the Doctor to recount. If he wants to share his troubles with Ardy, surely he will do so.
“Sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat, son. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Ardy.”
“Well, Ardy, as I said, I’m plumb out of grub — forgot to ask the Andersons to put up a box lunch — and we’ve got a piece to go before we get to any diner. But I’ve got the next best thing to perk you up. Reach me that yellow plastic prescription bottle out of my bag, if you don’t mind — the one without a label.”
Ardy unsnaps the medical bag and finds the vial in question.
“Now shake a couple of pills out. That’s right, you can put it back now. Okay, give me one, and you take the other.”
Ardy studies the fat pink pill in his brown palm. “What is it?”
Doctor Spencer winks broadly. “Horse vitamins, I call ’em. Cures whatever ails you. Try it.”
Reluctant to appear distrustful of this kind and generous man who has for so long stood as an inspiration to him, Ardy swallows the pill dry, as does Doctor Spencer.
“Nasty gouge you got on your scalp there, son.”
Ardy looks away from his benefactor. “Yes, a sharp twig in the woods …”
“Looks mighty like a bullet wound to my old eyes.”
Ardy says nothing.
“Want to tell me about it, son?”
Reproaching himself for hiding the truth from this legendary Good Samaritan of the Barnyard, Ardy begins to unburden himself of his adventures thus far. The story starts slow, then begins to spill forth, as Ardy’s sense of relief at finding a kindly friend grows. His volubility is heightened also by the growing effects of the pink pill he has swallowed, which seems to be diffusing a cottony mellowness throughout his entire body, tinged with a kind of sensual hyperacuity. His own voice seems to be coming from some distance away, whereas Doctor Spencers occasional interpolated grunt seems to emanate from within Ardy’s own skull, where it bounces from side to side like a BB in a shaken can, until finally falling out his ear.
Coming to the end of his recitation, Ardy concludes by saying, “And so, although I am in this country unsanctioned, I hope to rectify this misunderstanding with the proper authorities at my earliest possible convenience, so that I can continue my trip to Pleasantville without worrying about further harassment.”
Ardy falls silent, embarrassed, having noticed that he was speaking in an uncontrollable squeaky falsetto, quite unlike his normal manly timbre. He waits for Doctor Spencer to comment on his actions. The approbation of this man — so recently met in the flesh, but such a longtime mental comrade — means so much to Ardy.
Doctor Spencer delays speaking for such a long time that, were he not driving the truck with a certain drugged competence, Ardy could imagine he was unconscious. At last, however, the bulky vet lets loose with an exclamation whose significance escapes Ardy.
“It’s the sign,” says Doctor Spencer. “Son, you’re the sign we’ve been waiting for. We can go ahead now with our plans. Goddamn! Fasten your seatbelt, son, we’re taking off for the capitol.”
“Doctor Spencer, I am unable to find a seatbelt.”
“Well, just grab your balls then, because we’re starting to fly!”
With this Doctor Spencer tromps down leadenly on the accelerator and the rattletrap truck speeds off down the washboard pavement. The shocks and jolts thus produced are absolutely brain-numbing, and Ardy finds himself unable to ask any of the questions he has in mind.
Eventually the narrow road feeds into a larger, smoother, two-lane highway. The truck settles down to a fluid, headlong southern rush, racing toward — if Ardy’s memory of geography serves him well — the state capitol of Montpelier.
“Doctor Spencer,” says Ardy, “may I enquire as to exactly what you meant when you said that
I was ‘a sign?’”
“Son, it’s a long story that requires a smidgen of background to understand. But since we’ve got plenty of time, and you strike me as an intelligent sort, I’m going to fill you in.”
“I would be grateful for any information that would help me to understand this wonderful land of opportunity, Doctor.”
“Call me Herb, son.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I insist, boy.”
“All right, then — Herb.”
“Good. Well, Ardy, did you ever have an ambition? I mean, a real overpowering urge to be or do some one thing above all others.”
“Why, yes, Herb, I did — I still do. I know exactly what you mean. My ambition has always been to visit America, specifically the town of Pleasantville, and sample a little of the wonders of this country first hand, after so many years of reading about it. It’s been the governing factor of my whole life.”
“Then you’ll understand when I tell you that I had the same kind of dream. Ever since I was a little tad, I wanted one thing and one thing only.”
Doctor Spencer assumes a ruminative silence, as if in the presence of his official biographer, and Ardy is forced to prompt him. “And what was that dream, Herb?”
“To be the best goddamn veterinarian in the whole United States. Lord, I know it wasn’t much — not like discovering a goddamn cure for cancer or anything — but I always was a humble man, even as a boy, and it seemed like just enough to aim for. And by God, I did it. When that Digest article came out, I knew I had done it. Officially sanctioned by the best goddamn magazine in the world! Lord, it was the peak of my career.”
“And of my reading, Herb.”
“Thanks, son. Well, anyway, after years spent with my arms up cow twats — ’scuse the French, son, but I believe in calling a spade a spade, no reflection on your unfortunate heritage — I had accomplished my goal. But I soon discovered the trouble with attaining your dreams. Pay attention now, Ardy, because this is the big moral: there’s no place left to go afterwards.”
Ardy and Doctor Spencer both contemplate this pungent aphorism as a mile or so passes by. Then Doctor Spencer picks up the thread of his discourse.
“And what was even worse, Ardy, was that outside factors — disturbing national trends — were preventing me from even continuing at the peak of my powers.”
“Is this where I come in, Herb ?”
“We’re getting there, Ardy. Just be patient. Where was I? Oh, yes, those goddamn trends. Plots is more like it, of course. Insidious schemes and plots, taking place right under the country’s very nose, designed to sap our strength and will, leaving us weak and helpless against anyone who wanted to waltz in and take over — and at the same time, absolutely devastating the practice of veterinary medicine as we know it today. I’m talking about things you undoubtedly have heard of. The spread of Internet pornography, the advent of designer drugs, and the menace of Uzi-toting kindergartners. Rap music. Secular Humanism. Skirts for men.
“Now, son, when I first discovered how all these various plotters and conspirators were allied against the people who formed the very spine of this country, I have to admit I was downright despairing. It seemed there was nothing any one man could do to stem the tide. But then I realized my mistake. I was trying to fight everything at once. No one person can do that. I had to concentrate on one area where I could make a difference. And naturally a person tends to turn toward what they know best. In my case, that was the dairy industry.
“You see, Ardy, my pradtice has always relied on cows. Oh, sure, I’ll handle anything — pigs, chickens, horses, even cats and dogs. That’s just the kind of humble country vet I am. Sorta like that English vet on the pinko channel, know what I mean? You ever seen that show, son? It’s the one good program they got. Otherwise, it’s all a waste of taxpayer’s money.”
“I regret to say I never have, Herb. The lone Spice Island television station maintained a steady diet of political exhortations and nutmeg cooking shows prior to the American invasion, after which the airwaves were completely filled by old movies involving your formerly glamorous Death Valley Days President, now so forlornly senile.”
“No matter, you get my point. Anyhow, cows have always been my bread and butter, you understand. As goes the dairy industry, so goes the career of ol’ Doc Spencer. When the industry catches a cold, I get pneumonia. And a plot is well underway to infect us both.”
“And I —”
“Slow down, son, slow down! Lord, you’re a regular chatterbox! One step at a time.
“All of a sudden, I began seeing articles everywhere — even in the Digest — about how bad dairy products were for people. Cheese, milk, butter — if you listened to the radio and television long enough, you came out brainwashed, convinced they were killers! Cholesterol! You ever seen any co-lester-all, son ? I doubt it even exists. Yet even the government tries to convince you its some kind of bogeyman lurking in every little ice-cream sundae topped with half a can of whipped cream. Imagine even a good cold frothy glass of milk being bad for you! It makes me want to puke, I tell you.
“And not only was the government advising people against milk, but they were playing a game with the farmers, jacking up the price supports so that a man would get overconfident and overextend himself, then cutting them, so he fell flat on his face, went bankrupt and had to sell the farm. Son, we have been jerked around like a trout on a hook. That’s why I did it.”
Ardy is getting a bit sleepy, as his dose of horse vitamins wanes and the November sunlight warms the cabin air and Doctor Spencer drones on. “Did what, Herb?”
“Went and formed UMDPAFLL. The Utilize- More-Dairy-Products-Anti-Federalist-Liberty-League. Dedicated to the silent fight to restore the grandeur and greatness that this country once knew, before it became ensnared in a mesh of government regulations and atheistic teachings.”
“And what’s my part in all this, Herb?”
“Son, you are a symbol, pure and simple. Now don’t get me wrong — I know just from talking with you that you’re not one of those illiterate voodoo-crazed shoeless Caribbean scum, desperate to steal our jobs and impregnate our daughters. No, you’re one of those rare genetic sports, a kind of intelligent mutant that almost redeems your whole race. But the way you’re going to look to most people up here, you’ll stand for the horde of unwashed refugees that our weak-kneed, black-coptered government is secretly planning to relocate in Vermont. As the first illegal alien ever to penetrate our mountain fastness, you are just the match we need to light the general rebellion.”
“Rebellion?”
DoCtor Spencer nods. “When we get to the capitol and round up the other Green Mountain Boys, you’ll learn more. ’Til then, why not just relax?”
Ardy needs little inducement to do so. A sleepless night, the strange pill, the close hot atmosphere of the cab, all conspire to draw his eyelids down, down, down.…
The sudden cessation of vehicular motion is the equivalent of the Japanese practice of keeping a watch-cricket, by whose abrupt silence the homeowner knows of intruders (a fascinating Orientalism discovered only through the alert reportage of “Notes From All Over”). Absence of a sensation, thinks Ardy fuzzily, can be as telling as its presence.
Opening his eyes, Ardy finds himself alone in the truck. He starts to panic a bit, until, looking out the window, he spots Doctor Spencer, his bulk wedged into a phone booth set on the edge of a roadside rest area, receiver held against his ear. While Ardy silently debates the pros and cons of leaving the truck, Doctor Spencer finishes his call and returns.
Through the open door, along with the Doctor s bulky self, comes a chill breath of autumnal air, freighted with a thousand alien odors which send the most curious emotions coursing through Ardy’s blood. Ardy feels that the nap of unknown duration has done him good, leaving him once again alert and poised for further marvelous encounters in this strange land. Searching his inner self thoroughly, he is relieved to find that all traces of un
natural wariness seem to have disappeared. Nervous apprehension is the last thing he wants to feel on this voyage of a lifetime, and he makes a resolve to guard against such unhealthy emotions in the future.
“Hello, Herb. Sorry I dozed off on you back there. I fear I shirked my duties as a passenger. I could have helped pass the time and fend off highway hypnotism, perhaps by competing in a round of license-plate spotting or joint harmonizing.”
Doctor Spencer claps a heavy hand on Ardy’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “Don’t fret, son. I needed the time to think some anyway. And there was no way I was going to nod off, after popping two more vitamins.”
“How long was I napping ?”
“Just over an hour, son. It’s around one o’clock now, and we’re not far from Montpelier. I’ve just called the General Secretary of UMDPAFLL — ol’ Clem Trudeau — and told him to spread the message about your coming and to arrange a meeting after the boys get out of work tonight. So we’ve got a few hours to kill. What do you say to hunkering down over a plate of grub, Ardy?”
Ardy feels warm blood suffusing his face, and hopes it doesn’t show. “Doctor Spencer, sir — Herb — I regret to confess that I am temporarily without funds, having entrusted all my cash to my good friend Miller Armitage, whom I am to meet again in Pleasantville. Consequently, I would be hard-pressed to pay for my meal. But as I am quite content to subsist on these nutmeg lozenges here, please feel free to have your own dinner whenever you wish.”
“Son, I never heard such a load of codswallop in my life. Didn’t you pay any attention to what I said when you first got in my truck ? Its just part of the true-blue American way for one pioneer to stand up for his neighbor, come hell or high water, with no thought about getting paid back, knowing that next time might be his turn to beg and grovel. Now get those pearly choppers of yours ready for some honest New England chow.”
Joe's Liver Page 3