by Ron Charach
—Golf? Why not? Good t’hear you admit it, henry, about the deserter part and all. Hands him a mug of re-warmed coffee. Talk. And talk more the way you used to, please.
morgan back on his feet. —I don’t see it Claire. This coldness. Why? You know as well as I do. The way things turned out, we should be happy just to be here…
—henry, henry, poor henry-boy, you’re upset with me being “cold.” Translation: I’m not going to get all wild-eyed just because you deign to pay me, your own wife, a visit...
Deign? Where she get a word like that? She’s been readin’ and it’s startin’ to rub off...
— You come in here in the middle of the night all trussed up in rawhide, like a Wall Street broker at a costume party, and wonder why it doesn’t take my breath away…(Checkin’ the kitchen quartz, she fakes a yawn. Is she fakin’?) —Just because you could make some dumb blue-eyed strawberry blonde turn red with desire… A fellow mid-lifer like me needs more than a ten-minute romp on the kitchen floor, with or without an ice-cube prep.
He smiles: a Wall Street broker at a costume party? Nice. Is this the woman I regret bein’ married to?
—Besides, you know those shots galloway gives me knock me out for hours longer than I used to sleep, and quite frankly (yawns again)—shee-yit, she is tired—I’ve just about had it for tonight, even if you did come here expecting to soothe your guilt with a little speech, followed by some quick, affectionate pity sex. Reties the belt on her robe.
—Cut the jaded-missus crap, Claire. If you’re tryin’ to hurt me you’re succeedin’.
—Poor bayyy-by! Will you never stop piling on your endless epic, the tragedy of Henry Morganstern—who had it all, but somehow that wasn’t quite enough, whose pain is so much more intense than everyone else’s. Your little I’m sorrys are as useful as a tampon in a cadaver.
—Ech, you c’n out-gross the eight.
—I thought you liked images drawn from medicine. Isn’t that what your little poems were all about? Something has to explain our little “marital breakdown” beyond your mid-life crisis. There are couples around here, you know, who have stayed together—despite everything having blown to hell—or haven’t you noticed?
—Oh, sure: Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson—the prematurely aged—clinging to each other, hangin’ from each other’s arms to keep the boogeymen away...
—eight boogeymen, to be exact—and I’m looking at the saddest of the bunch! Oh yes, you’re too “youthful” to settle for a “senior couple” fate. Anyway, why don’t you just leave? We’ve had this argument too many times, as well as the one about how you just need Something More out of life—God knows, you never were willing to let me go for more: no, those fancy fertility investigations were more than you could bear. No, not for you... Yet here you are, making your snide remarks to me about not wanting to wake the children... You bastard…
—You through?
—Matter of fact, I’m not. Because it seems to me that because we didn’t keep going with all those fancy infertility procedures, we just naturally assumed that the miscarriages were my fault, me who had “the more active sexual past,” as you never tired of reminding me, while you, poor you, sat up all night studying medicine—though it seems that lately you’ve been making up for lost time...
—Here we go again, ’round and ’round...
—Now, of course papa galloway tells even the young folks that their child-rearing days are over, that they’re all too fried to even contemplate the idea. Yet, there are rumors going around that a child has been born to two young townies, who’s absolutely normal…
—Sounds like a John Gideon Christmas special…
—galloway’s warnings won’t stop couples from doing what comes natural. Even if they’re firing blanks. But what was that word you just used—fried?
—A manner of speech. What I’m saying is, it still hurts every time you rub it in that we couldn’t have kids—though, had we managed to, I’d have been stuck raising them myself...Being a father wouldn’t have kept you from your latest adventures...You knew about my pelvic problems before you married me, so why would anyone who wanted children have tied the knot with someone like me, with my history of “pelvic inflammatory disease?”
—At the time I wanted you—not children...I figured there’d be other ways to wind up bein’ more than just two lines in the General Practitioner Times. And speaking of making my mark, let me tell you about one right-eventful thing that happened since we were last together.
—If it’s dangerous I don’t want to hear about it.
—What’s not dangerous?
—As long as it’s not another woman, like you-know-who—plural.
—You never believe that things at Carla’s or ma’s aren’t like that; they’re strictly playful—harmless flirtin’. You know, pre-genital. But listen up: today, I actually had a run-in with cabana.
—cabana…
—It was incredible. Never mind exactly what over, but…
—I can guess. One of the town women knocked on my door and told me.
—What did she say?
—That you up and lectured the entire town, that galloway invited you to smooth things over, and that you wound up shootin’ up “some puhfeckly decent people.”
—It was self-defense; I jest grazed ’em…
—It’s always self-defense with you…
—Is that all she said?
—That’s all; what do you expect from a townie? She did well to get that much out.
—There’s more to it than you can imagine…
—Like maybe how you were lyin’ aroun’ scared inside ma’s while cabana’s fireworks display tied Will Gordon into a knot and drove him to kill himself…
—I feel sick about that. But you know so much—you do all right for someone who never leaves the house.
henry pulls her close.
—henry, I figured you weren’t directly part of that tragedy. I may call you the world’s worst sell-out. But I know that what happened unsettled you. You’re not a complete monster—not yet, anyway.
—Claire, I keep hearin’ these demonic cricket sounds at night whenever I’m alone—
—Tell me. Tell me about them.
—I already told you. But what I really want you to know is this: I looked him straight in the eye.
—You mean the c-word, or Bill Gordon?
It would’ve been hard, looking Gordon in the eye. —No, I meant cabana. I stared him in the eye and I answered the truth—after the town-hall meeting—when he asked me where I’d been. I just told him —Ah been at the town-hall meetin’, cab. I sensed that even though that’s what he figured I’d been doin’, even though it was the worst possible thing to have been doin’—as a member of the eight—it was also the only thing I could say that he’d accept; it’s like I sensed he’d respect my honesty or somethin’.
—And did he “respect” you? She mocks, intrigued despite herself.
—The strangest thing. He just smiled and went on with his card game.
—Deep guy, this cabana. Some wonder if it even has vocal cords. So now you’re all proud-like, being respected by this paragon of decency and respectability—
—Give it a rest…
—No, you give it a rest. You may have as much guts as brains; I’ll admit that. But I have to marvel at the kind of grouch appeal this cabana packs. I mean, you’re supposed to be honored if he shoots a warning your way… But before you head out to celebrate your little tryst with the beast, let me remind you that cabana is probably etching your name on a bullet this very minute—to be delivered, no doubt, in a more discreet location than Carla’s saloon.
—You know, Claire, I couldn’t care less. I’m ashamed at the tingling I feel when I remember the actual words cabana said to me...
—It
spoke to you? It actually speaks?
—You are impressed. Actually, what I meant was the words I said to him: I was at the town-hall meetin’, cab. But he did come very close to speaking—he nearly said —Where ya been, henry?
—Pro-fucking-found.
—Just about, but not quite. Why I’ll bet the other seven wouldn’t have believed their ears had he up and said the words.
—You know, Henry Morganstern, I wish I could recall what I once saw in you. The kind of achievements that used to make you proud. This showdown stuff is just so, so unworthy…
—Claire, you sure you’ve been taking the medicine galloway gives you?
—Never miss a dose. She shows him a faint ski trail of red tracks on her forearms. Pulls down her eyelids. —I been vapin’ too. Though he switched me to a higher CBD to THC ratio, for total body relaxation. Makes the time between shots much longer.
—Well you’d better not miss out. It’s important if you’re to keep on…
—...without crackin’ up?
—You have been missing doses, haven’t you?!
—No more than you miss punctuation marks or capitals when ya talk, sugah. Not many. But I guess you don’t need me pressing all your conscience buttons at once, now do you? Wouldn’t you rather keep riding your Claire instead of riding with the eight? She slaps her thigh.
He pulls her towards him for a kiss. But she pushes him away.
—Claire, I swear that after what happened to little Gary, and to his poor dad, and then that good-intentions fiasco at the town hall, I was gonna walk away from it all. Maybe ask you to take me back.
—Okay, henry, so that’s how you really felt. So, please, honey, do me a favor: leave. Don’t keep looking me up just to tell me we can’t go on meeting like this. You can’t ricochet off me like a bullet just to get your strength up. I get awfully ticked being your rock, henry morgan.
—You’re fed up. Course you are. But we’re not just star-crossed; there’s a curse on us of another kind. When I walk into that saloon and the coldest piece of AI that ever passed for a man gives me an order—or a glance that somehow conveys an order—then I realize I’m not what you call the old Dr. Henry Morganstern. Never did like that name. It was too something.
He goes on: —And I don’t have two grams of the old intellectual balls I used to—I’ve become a part, not as willing a part as galloway, maybe, but just a part of the way things are around here.
She touches his forehead, a big tear rolling down. Quick kiss, forehead then lips. But as she leans into him, he pulls himself a bit back, pressin’ his groin into her side but with his face turned away. Snaps up his gun belt, draws a deep breath, and it’s surface time again as he says —G’night, then. By the way, what ya doin’ for sex these days?
—Why at forty-five mr. morgan—Ah’m quite content with thawed carrots, mebbe an unripe banana or two, plastic, o’course, like everythin’ aroun’ here…now that I had to use the old sex toys as candles. And you…?
—Doughnuts—’bout the cheapest thing you can purchase by the dozen. galloway’s bottomless larder holds boxes on boxes of frozen Krispy Kremes.
—Mmmm, do get me some. Gives her little belly a rub. Oh, aren’t we just the dirtiest pair of old marrieds around?
—Certainly the flirtiest. Night, Hillary.
—Night, Bill.
—God help us through this. I sound like John Gideon, that self-made son of God.
How courtship slides silently into the morass of married life: from trusted to crusty.
—Goodnight, she answers and takes to cryin’ some on the couch. So much in love still, she resolves to search through his boxed belongin’s first thing in the mornin’—remind herself who he really was before this bad dream swallowed them both. But her lips tremble as she walks to the mirror and sees how much paler she’s become—no doubt galloway’s needles and pills are partly to blame for that. Realizes she’ll have to stop takin’ The Shots if she’s ever to find her old henry again—or her former gen-you-whine self.
Revelations
carla writes a letter
It’s howlin’ out, one of galloway’s dust storms programmed on the simulator—the storm track packin’ an unfamiliar whistle an’ punch com-bi-nation, courtesy of the shuffle feature. The big ones have left behind their usual mess o’ whiskey an’ beer bottles an’ torn playin’ cards. Couple townies come by to pick up some boxes of empties, wounded ones with blood soaked through their bandages. With things bein’ kicked around in the wind outside, one of the eight offers t’take Carla home, kind o’ serve as her big escort, but she jest smiles her feline smile, kind o’ purrs —No thanks, boys. She bundles little Lucy in the old blanket the girl uses as an overcoat—kissin’ her real light on the forehead (which is see-through skin instead o’ bone in some places) an’ tells her —Thanks, honey. See you tomorrow. The unlovely Lucy heads into the ragin’ night, tryin’ t’keep her blanket from blowin’ off an’ thinkin’ about anythin’ to ease her mind off the God-awful cold and her fragile con-dition.
Carla’s all by her lonesome now, counters wiped and broken glass swept up. The chairs all tucked under and tomorrow’s finger-foods removed from their dehydration packs for re-constitutin’. Though the wind’s screamin’ outside, there’s a kind of eerie stillness inside ’cept for an occasional howl that pierces on through. Mebbe from some wind-chilled wolf cryin’ and slobberin’ for someone to let a singed-coat carnivore into their hearts—a soft-sell pitch to set up a peace of sorts and mebbe get a good meal if somebody falls for it.
Carla walks to the big mirror over the bar, smoothin’ her soft hair, rubs a bit o’ mascara stain from under one eye and sets down with a writin’ pad pulled from under the counter, pluckin’ a pen she keeps in her garter. Gives it a little shake, bendin’ over it slightly (them cone-shaped breasts comin’ into view like a long-awaited shoreline) and takes t’writin’ a letter to her girlfriend Sharon (a.k.a. Meg) that works another saloon somewhere out there mebbe fifty miles into the desert—who knows mebbe a hundred and fifty miles:
Ah bin wahnderin’ jest how youse a’doin’ so Ah feggered Ah’d git yo’ down a few lahns—jest t’sort o’ tell yo’ how glad Ah am ’at youse is well an’ enjoyin’ your new job at the Sa-loon. Lak, Ah...
Can you stand it? Well, I can’t. All right, so you play dumb to survive, to keep their paws off you (no mean feat), to keep bread on the table. But God, Sharon, what good is bread when you’re half-sick to your stomach? What comfort is it to keep them off your body when you can feel their eyes glued to every part of you?
Want to know the latest “hit” around here: Carla’s purr. Carla, as you know, is me. I never was quite up to fitting myself with a pet name like Meg—didn’t want to risk exciting them even more, as in —What’s yer reallll name, Mahhhrgarit? Mahhhr-gerie?
As it is, I’m Cahhhla. And Carla’s purr is the sexy little throat-noise I’m expected to make while being coy. Have you puked yet? And get this: the one they call, and I kid you not, “fat-ass jake” (the small j and all other small letters around here are de rigueur; seems the heavier a dude you are, the smaller your letter—needless to say I get a capital C) well, the aforementioned fat-ass has developed a crush on yours truly, which, needless to say, does slightly less than make me crawl under the sheets and spank the monkey.
Sharon, it’s so depressing! Maybe demoralizing is more accurate. I try to keep my spirits up—honest I do. I tell myself, —Arlene, remember who you really are, and what you really feel inside, but I swear, even my own name Arlene, even Arlene Galloway, is beginning to sound like it could be anybody’s name. And my mom is no slouch either when it comes to changing her name back and forth. If only I could spend a little time with her alone, I wouldn’t feel so in the dark and on my own.
Maybe I really am turning into Carla—I have nightmares that I already have, especially w
hen this Carla identity is all that keeps me from ending up as a dead pile of flesh, or from resigning myself to a life among the townies, those folks with radiation readings right off the charts. Some of them have physical deformities out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not. But for the most part, they’re just weak and tired.
Sharon, I can’t wait much longer for the big Rebuilding and Reunifying program uncle harold keeps promising. But I guess I shouldn’t complain. When my shifts are done, I have a cozy enough little pad to come home to—something straight out of Cosmo. Though I never feel completely relaxed. I get creeped out and can’t shake this paranoid feeling of being watched. Sometimes I swear I hear voices in the walls.
uncle keeps saying we will be re-united with the rest of the country, but that the whole process of reestablishing a communications network and decontamination could take years! Meanwhile, he’s been ingenious enough to set up and operate this self-contained biosphere, so how can I doubt him?
It’s a shame that our conversations have to be so one-sided, but I can understand that you have to keep your replies short, ole pen pal! Though it’s kind of you to reply so quickly—I hardly have to wait after handing my letter to uncle harold. Sometimes, though, it starts to feel like a soliloquy at my end.
Look, misery loves company. I need to hear about what’s going on at your saloon. I care about how you’re coping, and I sure could use some helpful tips. But let me finish my list of laments before I ask some detailed questions about your situation. (I almost wrote “yore” out of habit...I swear, if uncle hadn’t connected me up with someone like you, who is in a situation exactly like mine, I’d go bananas!) How long ago was it I had a TV and a computer in my bedroom and a smart phone that could actually connect with live people on the other end?
But I might as well start from the top and move downwards—don’t worry, I’m not going to catalogue the entire “big eight” for you and tell you what it is about each of them that turns my stomach into a constant knot and my nervous system into a network of little misfires. Let me just say this: you cannot know, you cannot fathom the extent to which the head cock around here, cabana, virtually terrorizes this town. Even educated men like uncle harold seem so small whenever he appears. He’ll parade his way in here, walking so straight you’d think he was dunked head to toe in cement, with shoulders that won’t quit, and a bulge in the front of his pants I haven’t seen since ballet class; I swear, Sharon, unless he’s stuffing stockings in there, he is built larger than any man—make that animal—I have ever had the dubious pleasure of seeing. (And don’t go reading this as enthusiasm—believe me, this is one girl whose heart does not go thump-thump just because twenty inches of flesh with hair at the base and a man stuck to it struts by.) If I do happen to notice what I call “The Bulge,” it’s because he wears it like a flag; if you ever want to do a thesis on phallic dominance in the human species, tell your friendly neighborhood anthropologist to set up shop down here, commit some anthropology.