“Hello, Mister Toejam, I’m from the Brown Daily Herald. Now, how would you describe conditions in Kathmandu …?”
Roy heartlessly leaves Ardy to Stumble along with manufactured nonsense. Ardy is just grateful that no cameras are present. When the youthful reporters questions are exhausted he leaves, and Ardy wipes sweat from his brow.
A commotion is going on by the door leading to the veranda. “Okay, crack it just enough to let one person in.…” Slam! “Get the chains back on, quick!”
The visitor just admitted — a pudgy fellow wearing a tan overcoat — immediately focuses on Ardy and steps over students to reach him.
“Charles Baker from the Journal-Bulletin, Mister Toejam. Is it true that you’re in this country illegally?”
“Well, I, that is …”
Roy steps in, and somehow between the two of them he and Ardy manage to circumvent the reporters more impertinent probing. As the man is leaving, Ardy calls out, “I really have enjoyed your coverage of the Scozzafava-Montagioia gang war, sir!”
“Thanks.”
The door is opened to allow the reporter to depart. Hot on his heels, a camera crew led by a female commentator pushes in.
“Pat Woodlawn from Channel Ten. Can we get some makeup on Mister Toejam, please …? Are we ready? Okay. Mister Toejam, how do you feel about the injuries sustained by the University security force, and do you agree that it is only symbolic justice for the lives lost in your native country?”
“My native country …?”
“I see. And is it true that you have threatened to set yourself afire if the police attempt to storm the building?”
“Under no circumstances!”
As soon as the delegation from the local station leaves, a new crew arrives, trailing coaxials.
“Turner Cable. Mister Toejam, what is your opinion on the Atlanta Braves’ chances this year?”
“America, I am ashamed to say, has a long history of repressing its native tribes, and I hope they receive reparations.”
In quick succession come representatives of The Boston Globe, The New York Times and The Washington Post. Roy hustles them in and out impatiently.
“Jesus, where are the networks, that’s who we need, not these old-media shitheads!”
Roy is not to be disappointed much longer. Word filters in from the vigilant hordes outside that the unexpected delay results from technical troubles involved in setting up a satellite dish. Much joy results, as it becomes plain that Big Three, as well as CNN and others, are settling down for a long winter’s night of coverage.
Ardy’s head is whirling. He feels faint. He knows he is talking crazily, but can’t help it. Having a camera pointed at him absolutely unnerves him. Out of the corner of one eye, he can see himself in a taped performance on the television as he speaks now to a print reporter, and he feels split in two.
At last the national correspondents, having worked out an elaborate pecking order among themselves, are ready to file in. The procession of finely coifed — but intense — reporters begins. Ardy handles them somehow, although he knows he is making a hash out of Roy’s careful strategy.
When all the journalists have finally left, Ardy smiles weakly at Roy, who glowers back.
“Man, you need some more coaching. What was all that shit about the Dalai Lama’s favorite tea? I just hope you didn’t turn them all off.”
“I did my best, Roy.…”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The crowd around Ardy breaks up, and he is left alone. He wanders into the cafeteria, gets himself some cold mashed potatoes — the only comestible left — and consumes them without much enthusiasm.
Now commence the longest hours of Ardy’s life. With the departure of the media, who seem to have lost interest in the event, thanks to Ardy’s ineptitude, a pall descends on the protesters. People huddle in glum little knots, whispering and fidgeting. Outside, the short hiemal day comes to an end, and the rapidly dropping temperatures cause the dispersal of the crowd gathered around the building. When Ardy peeks out through a slit formed by hastily nailed slats, he sees only silent and ominous masses of policemen, lit as if in an inferno by the spinning red, white and blue lights atop their ranked cars.
Ardy cannot even derive any consolation from Dawn, since Roy has her attention monopolized, as they huddle in a corner conversing in fervent whispers, holding hands. Desperate to speak to someone, Ardy looks for Kip or Professor Anger, the only other two people he knows. He finds the latter first. The grey-haired savant appears to share in the general ennui.
“Hello, Tom. May we talk?”
“Grmph.”
“I don’t believe I ever asked about your field of Study, Tom.”
“Semiotics.”
“A-ha, earthquakes! I just read an interesting article entitled ‘When the Earth Trembles.’ Perhaps you —”
“Listen, Dorjam, I’m about to lose my tenure, and all you can do is joke! Get out of here!”
Ardy complies.
Elsewhere Ardy finds Kip nervously cracking his knuckles.
“Mister Kip, I’m glad to see you. How are you doing?”
“Wow, I just realized, like, I’m supposed to be studying for a quiz tomorrow. I can’t afford to fail another one.”
“Perhaps I could coach you.…”
“Wow, excellent, you know organic chem, Mister Toejam ?”
“Perhaps you would care to share a Nutmeg Coke with me instead.…”
Ardy leaves the boy busily popping his metacarpals.
Time drags on. The tedium and general uneasiness become almost palpable. Where, Ardy wonders, is the revolutionary fervor of just a few hours ago? Perhaps he should make another speech …?
Around midnight, Ardy cannot take the isolation anymore. He approaches Roy and Dawn, who are still engaged in heartfelt colloquy.
“Roy, could I please speak with you …?”
“Hey, Ardy, buzz off. Can’t you see Dawn and I are busy talking about our future ?”
Roy’s impolite rejoinder touches a match to Ardy’s fuse. All the indignities he has suffered under Roy’s tutelage rush back to him, shattering his normally placid nature. His vision obscured by a red haze, he begins to tremble. It is awful to lose control, one small part of him with the voice of Sister Publia Hyacinth admonishes, but he cannot help himself. He is about to cut loose. The awful words that will sum up all his wrath bubble up in his throat and escape.
“Roy, you — you burn me up!”
Ardy’s shout seems to awaken everyone from their stupor. Those closest to Ardy were already watching, but those further away take notice only now. And, as events will soon prove, they misinterpret what they hear. Almost immediately a chant begins.
“Burn it up! Burn it up! Burn it up!”
Soon the roused protesters are on their feet, fists pumping the air, shouting, stamping. Ardy’s words appear to have coincided neatly with a desire for action of a dramatic sort.
Before Roy can assume control of the situation, torches and bottles of cooking oil appear in the hands of the crowd. The curtains are the first to take flame, followed by scattered newspapers and furniture. The loud crackling of the flames soon has competition from screams.
“Holy Christ, get those chains off the door! Who the fuck boarded up those windows! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, move it! Everyone out! Run!”
A mass exodus ensues. Ardy is carried along with the crowd, which, as it spills out, utterly overwhelms the sleepy, chilly, unprepared cops. The law officers fall back before the human flood, abandoning their cars.
Fifty yards from the building, Ardy is left in a calm eddy. He turns back to Faunce House. Flames are leaping out the windows, as Ardy watches in disbelief, the second and third floors catch fire also. Luckily, everyone appears to have escaped.
The police are utterly disorganized, and no arrests are being made. Everyone, both authorities and protesters, seem riveted by the conflagration, A cold wind brushes Ardy’s face, and in complete terror he w
atches sparks carried to neighboring buildings, where they immediately ignite.
Someone has finally summoned the wits to call the fire department, for sirens sound distantly, growing closer with each second. This intrusion of outside forces seems to release everyone from their enchantment. Students begin to flee, followed by police. A couple of pitched battles are underway. Obscenities from both sides fill the air.
Ardy retreats behind one of the famous Brown elms. Much to his surprise, he finds Dawn, Roy and Kip already sheltering there. It is easy to recognize them, for their features are illuminated eerily by firelight from three sides.
“Roy, I believe we have established that our cause is one to be reckoned with. However, it remains to be seen if there will be any university left to respond to our demands.”
Roy, to his credit, appears properly chagrined.
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in. So I miscalculated a little. Hey, let’s get off the campus before we’re caught or burnt up.”
The foursome, sneaking from tree to tree, manage to make good their escape.
Walking toward Dawn’s apartment, dogged by the smell of smoke and the sound of fire-fighting commands shouted through bullhorns, they leave behind the scene of their disappointments. An unearthly light and tendrils of dense smoke accompany them for a good quarter mile.
Silence haunts their steps. Each person seems occupied with his or her own thoughts.
When they are nearly at Dawn’s house, Roy speaks.
“You know, maybe I’m not cut out for a life of political agitation.”
“You will hear no disagreement from me, Roy”
Roy takes Dawn’s hand. “Fuck you, buddy, I’m not apologizing, just accepting what’s what. Now listen up, Ardy. Dawn and I have done some serious talking tonight. My head’s gone through a lot of changes, and I think I’ve made up my mind about what to do. I’m taking up my father on his offer to join his business. I’ve explained it to Dawn, and she’s agreed that if I settle down into a career, we can get married.”
Ardy is stunned. “Roy, I don’t know what to say. Of course, you have my congratulations. I am just sorry I will not be able to attend the wedding, as I will be breaking rocks at Sing-Sing, or the local equivalent thereof. However, I will endeavor to forward a present out of my meager prison pay.…”
“Quit begging for sympathy, man, I’m not gonna forget you. I know you don’t wanna get hooked up with my old man —”
“No, you are quite right with respect to that option, Roy.”
“But we can help you escape. Look, take this cash.”
Roy digs a mass of bills out of his pocket and crams it into Ardy’s jacket.
“It’s an advance from my Dad, but you take it all, there’s a lot more where that came from.”
“Roy, if this money derives from illegal operations…”
“Shut up, man. Okay, there, keep it, good. Now, Kip here —”
“Wow, awesome.”
“Kip here lives in New Haven —”
“Wow, Roy, New London.”
“All right, all right, New London, for Christ’s sake. We’ll let him borrow Dawn’s car, so he can get home to his folks, and you can ride with him. We’ll send someone to pick up the Triumph later. The cops won’t be looking for you in New London, and you can catch a bus or a train heading wherever you want.”
“Wow, I don’t know if my folks’ll take me back after this, Roy.…”
“Man, that’s your problem. The major thing is to get out of this city. Well, how does that sound, Ardy?”
“Roy, in some obscure way I will miss your company. But I suspect I will live longer. Good luck, Roy, and give me your hand. May I claim my kiss from the future Missus Montagioia in advance?”
“Oh, Ardy, of course you can!”
10
I Am Joe’s Liver
The red Triumph pulls up in front of the Amtrak Station in New London. Mister Kip shuts off the ignition with a weary sigh. He turns to face Ardy. Sheepishness mingles with exhaustion on his youthfully unformed features, giving him the look of a monkey whose hand has been trapped in a jar for hours, because it won’t relinquish the nut inside.
“Wow, Mister Toejam, I think I mighta stripped first gear. You figure Dawn and Roy will be mad at me, I mean like if they know I didn’t do it on purpose or nothing, which I didn’t of course, it’s just that Dad never let me practice enough on his Mercedes.”
“I believe Roy’s generosity will extend to supplying his new bride with a whole fleet of cars to replace this one, if she so wishes, Mister Kip. Goodness knows, hell have enough money, being the Montagioia scion and all.”
“Wow, that’s something I don’t quite dig, Mister Toejam. Like, Roy was always telling us how he was the son of a British diplomat stationed in India at Dharmsala, and how he saw firsthand the plight of the Tibetan refugees and then crossed illegally into Tibet and rescued you from prison, and now you tell me he’s like some kinda Sonny Corleone.…”
“Yes, well, I have tried to explain to you, Mister Kip, that Roy’s imagination frequently outpaces reality, and that his background is not what he led you to believe. And please, can you desist from calling me ‘Mister Toejam?’”
“Wow, I’d be happy to call you Thongstrap, but it just doesn’t seem right to get too intimate with the Dalai Lama’s own nephew, seeing as how you’re the reincarnation of some like fourth century perfect master .…”
Ardy, tired and itchy and somewhat morose, dismisses the matter. “Simply forget it, Mister Kip. Let us turn our attention to our next move. Are your plans unchanged?”
“Wow, Mister Toejam, I guess I’ll still do like I told Roy last night — was that whole awesome frightening demonstration only last night?”
“Yes, indeed, the whole unnecessary conflagration occurred under twelve hours ago.”
“Wow.”
“So you intend to seek the sanctuary of your parents’ home, and hope they will consent to protect you in the face of future legal storms? I can’t say that I blame you for choosing such a domestic refuge, Mister Kip. If I had a home to retreat to, I doubtlessly would. So although I would have enjoyed your company on this leg of my trip, I fully agree with the wisdom of your decision. It will seem strange to be once more alone, since I have had companions of one sort or another ever since my first day in this hospitable, albeit complex land.”
“Wow, sorry, Mister Toejam, you sure I couldn’t convince you to come home with me?”
“No, Mister Kip, I appreciate your offer, but must press on. I have a destination to reach, a goal that I have neglected for too long, caught up as I was in the hurly-burly of politics and sensuality. And I tend to be leery of my reception at your parents, however liberal-minded they might be, considering that I have attracted so much media attention and might possibly bear the stigma of ringleader and firebrand.”
“Wow, I guess this is goodbye then. You sure you won’t take this excellent slightly damaged car, Mister Toejam, it might make your trip easier, drive straight to this Pleasantville place, if that’s where you gotta go.”
“No, I am afraid I can’t, Mister Kip. For one thing, Dawn and Roy are expecting to retrieve the car here in New London. For another, I haven’t a license, and dare not risk being stopped, especially in a vehicle that has accumulated such a record of violations. And lastly, once Dawn has become a Montagioia by marriage, I fear that this car will become a positive magnet for Scozzafava bullets. No, on the whole, I believe public transportation offers my only hope.”
Ardy and Mister Kip sit for a moment in silence. Then Mister Kip extends his hand, and Ardy grips it.
“Wow, I’m proud to have helped your cause in any way I could, Mister Toejam. I guess someday it’ll all make sense.”
“Always hold on to that belief, Mister Kip.”
“Wow, what an excellent thought.”
Ardy levers open his door and steps out, slush squishing beneath his shoes. Mister Kip does likewise.
“Guess I’
ll leave the car here,” says Mister Kip forlornly. “So long, Mister Toejam.”
“Take care, Mister Kip.”
Ardy, standing by the abandoned car, in which he has enjoyed so many happy albeit hair-raising rides with Dawn, watches Mister Kip depart. The puppyish youth casts frequent backward glances over his camouflaged shoulder, as if reluctant to leave behind this exciting and perhaps formative stage of his development. Finally, however, he rounds the corner of a building and disappears from Ardy’s life.
Only then does Ardy take full cognizance of his surroundings.
It is a sparkling bright day in late January. The mild weather that helped contribute to the success of yesterday’s rally has departed. In its wake have arrived bracing temperatures and gusty winds, but as yet no clouds that might obscure the wintry sun.
Ardy stands in the middle of a black-topped lot, mostly scraped clean of snow. At one edge of the lot looms the train-station, an old-fashioned brick building retrofitted with brown thermopane glass, but still proudly flaunting its gingerbread trim. If Ardy squints, it looks almost like a Digest cover painting.
Beyond the tracks, on the far side of the station, Ardy sees a glittering harbor, pleasure crafts, fishing boats and a ferry abob on the chop. The old-fashioned scene serves to buoy up Ardy’s spirits, dispelling the moroseness he felt in the car.
Why should he fret? True, he has endured minor setbacks along the way, and perhaps dallied disgracefully with Roseanna when he should have been journeying. But all that is in the past. Today is a new day, the first day of the rest of his life. Here he stands, closer, he realizes, to Pleasantville than ever before. That fabled city, the El Dorado of Eloquence, the Cibola of Condensation, the Hy Brasil of High Thoughts, lies less than a hundred miles west, as the crow flies, and certainly not much further by ground. The sun is shining gloriously, gulls are skimming garbage from the bay with joyous cries, his pockets are stuffed with cash, and he is well-insulated from the cold, wearing boots, corduroy pants, down jacket and fleece-lined leather gloves which Dawn bought him one day. Not to mention his Tartar’s cap. True, he hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours, has just endured a full-fledged riot, followed by a nerve-wracking drive full of the sound of grinding gears, and now has to negotiate unknown terrain with potential legions of law-enforcement officials on his trail.…
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