Joyland Trio Deal

by Jim Hanas

  If the tableau painter had positioned himself further from the action of the story, he might have been able to include the rock, the cliff, and even the water (water?). Had he attempted to explore the wonders of scenery instead of focusing only on the movements of his main character(s), all this might have been avoided. Martin would then have turned abruptly at the edge, following the path of the drozing bumblebee, sloshing through the marshy field beneath the power lines. He would have counted the magpies as they rose from the grass when he passed. And in his wake, the insects would have settled back to their normal feeding. They would have ceased the beating of their tiny wings and drifted back to the cracked mallard egg abandoned by its mother.

  Of course, from that distance, the bumblebee would be completely invisible, and Martin would look much like an insect himself.

  Sometimes perspective means everything.

  DEVILS AND ANGELS

  Martin, he said. Don’t listen to him. Deep in your heart of hearts you know what is right.

  And what’s right?

  Stay here where it is safe. Don’t go chasing after things you can’t have. It can only lead to no good.

  If you want to make your mark anywhere, kid, you’ve got to take some chances. Run blind.

  And end up in a ditch?

  Some people are meant for glory, kid, and you’re one of them.

  Splash!

  I told you so, the angel said.

  JAIL BREAK

  “If you were dying,” Annie once told Martin, “I would switch places with you. When the doctors weren’t looking, I would slip into your room, jump into your bed, yank the intravenous tube from your arm, and jab it into mine. I would lock the door, place Polaroid photographs of your room over the surveillance cameras, remove the catheter from your bladder, and make the incision into my own.”

  “And if I fell from a cliff into the water below? If I were washed out to sea with no hope of seeing land again? What would you do for me then, Annie?”

  “Don’t ask me hypothetical questions,” she said. “That would never happen.”

  DODGEBALL

  The next time, Martin evaded the question by not answering. It is better not to answer questions, he thought, because then you cannot be held accountable. And besides, wouldn’t it be foolish to admit that he was thinking of the wind? The wind buffeting him around like a killer whale playing with a baby seal. The wind hurtling crystal vases at him. The wind smashing Buscaglio Constando’s ship on the jagged rocks of some uncharted island, marooning him there with his ten favorite CDs, one book, and one indispensable appliance.

  And Annie? Well, of course with Annie as well. But not as she was. He imagined her as a mermaid, sunning herself on a rock like that little statue in Copenhagen, fishing drowning victims from the drink to use as dolls, and turning to water whenever he tried to touch her. Martin’s world was largely fantasy.

  “What are you thinking?” Annie asked, and Martin made like he hadn’t heard, whistling softly.

  “I think there is a problem in this,” Annie said.

  WHAT TIME IS IT, MR. WOLF?

  The last person to see Martin before this foolish, foolish venture was Annie. This was at precisely 15:32:42.67 on June 20, 1995. If we agree that it takes exactly 18 minutes and 46.83 seconds to run from Annie’s home to the cliff (I have since timed this myself, taking into account my rallentando on approach of the precipice), we can safely say that Martin began his fall at 15:51:29.50. This means very little except that the time of Martin’s fall coincides with my writing of this story. In fact, although I wasn’t paying close attention to the clock on my new mahogany desk (purchased only two weeks ago at a garage sale at 09:04:25.71), it is quite probable that Martin struck the surface of the water just as I typed the word Splash!

  This, coincidentally, occurred at 15:51:41.43. The cliff was not as high as earlier accounts would have led you to believe.

  OLD MOTHER WITCH

  It would be wrong to place all the blame for this story on Edith Fowke. She has done nothing but unconsciously create a framework into which I have placed Martin. Should anything bad happen to Martin in any version of his story, the blame should be mine. In fact, there is a sense in which I have deliberately tried to kill Martin. Why? I’m not sure. Possibly, I am:

  1. Bored with Martin, and the action and suspense created by having him tumble into the drink will speed the plot.3

  2. Jealous of Martin because Martin is unreal.

  3. Martin.

  4. Jealous of Martin because of Annie (whose unreal-ness is not as much of an issue with me).

  CROWS AND CRANES

  An imaginary tableau of Martin (a bird’s-eye view): were it possible for the tableau painter to suspend himself by some mechanical device over the scene of Martin’s demise, the resulting painting would be entirely blue. This type of art has fallen under heavy criticism, specifically for its lack of any significant relation to life — even the juxtaposition of different colors in other abstract art can be said to convey feeling — but it is particularly useful in depicting Martin’s situation because of its lack of life. It conveys the feeling of “alone,” so much so that Martin does not even appear within the tableau’s four edges.

  The tableau painter’s signature, located in the bottom right-hand corner, resembles small, hovering birds.

  DRAGON TAG

  A prolonged exposure to water — even fictional water — can result in desquamation, where the skin peels away in layers. As layers of skin fleck away, tiny scales like shards of glass form a cloud around the desquamer, regaling him in a robe of iridescence not unlike a full-body halo. This phenomenon, which can reach proportions rivaling those of small whales (often documented by sailors, marine biologists, and young skinny-dippers in love), is held responsible for many sea monster sightings, strange migratory deviations in river salmon, and unplanned pregnancies. It is said to be a vision of extreme beauty and awe. However, as layers are removed, and the heart comes closer and closer to the surface, the body in question is made more vulnerable. This is an undesirable fate, not to mention melodramatic.

  In the version of Martin’s story entitled “Dragon Tag,” Martin is rescued by the net of a poor fisherman before desquamation can rear its ugly head. In return for this act of kindness, Martin promises to grant the fisherman three wishes. However, late at night, when both the fisherman and his wife have fallen into a deep sleep, Martin escapes into the woods, still dragging the net behind him like a wedding dress. This is considered an act of cunning rather than cowardice.

  In all other versions, Martin begins to dissolve/melt/react.

  DEAD MAN ARISE

  Annie brought Martin to her church, but he just couldn’t get into it. It was all so ridiculous. In church, they spoke of fishers of men. In church, they spoke of men being brought back from the dead. Martin spent his time dismantling the pew in front of him, carefully removing the spikes that held it together, piling small pieces of wood at his side, and when the call for communion came, he remained in his seat while Annie strode confidently yet complacently to the altar.

  RED LION

  Before Martin knew what was happening, the crystal vase shattered on the wall above his head. The tiny glass shards settled on his shoulders, his head, and the collection of dead insects.

  “Annie, Jesus . . . !”

  “I am not your keeper, Martin! Do you hear me?!”

  But how could anyone hear anything with all that screaming going on? “Honestly, Annie . . .”

  Something else buzzed past Martin’s ear.

  CAT AFTER MOUSE

  In the version of Martin’s story entitled “Cat After Mouse,” Martin begins to hallucinate. There is a brief glimpse of Heaven (sloping hills and slot machines), but ultimately he is turned away by St. Peter due to the circumstances of his death.

  “Really, Martin, if we let all the stupid peo
ple in, we wouldn’t have such a reputation for excellence. We sport some of the highest grade point averages around.”

  Martin shuts his eyes.

  BLIND MAN’S B(L?)UFF

  annieannieannieannieannieannieannieannieannieannie

  ANTE, ANTE, OVER THE SHANTY

  Martin. Annie. Films. Silent. Night. Moon. Love. Hearts. Chocolate. Kiss. Nipples. Eyes. Blind? Annie. Annie. Over.

  GHOST

  The name mix-up could have happened to anyone, but it came at an unfortunate time.

  The argument ended with Annie in tears, Martin in her arms. Martin, somewhat spent, closed his eyes and tried to console her as best he could without moving.

  “I don’t know what I’m saying. . . .”

  “It’s okay. . . .”

  RAG TAG

  While it could be attributed to simple, gratuitous nudity, the rending of Annie’s clothing (and the subsequent casting of said clothing, piece by piece, into the ocean) is meant to symbolize a change in her, reminiscent of the chrysalis maturing and a butterfly emerging. So Annie stood roughly three-quarter, her right leg extended behind her to emphasize its leanness, the curve up her thigh interrupted only slightly by the rise of her buttocks, dipping into the small of her back, sliding over her shoulders and down . . .

  FOX AND GEESE

  In the variation entitled “Fox and Geese,” many mistakes are made, the least of which being that Martin decides he needs Annie. A plan is devised in which Martin surprises Annie with questions she is not prepared to answer. In response, she goes through a series of transformations in his arms: fire, crystal vase, bumblebee, water. . . . Martin’s questions, like Annie’s before, anticipate and announce these changes.

  FOX AND GOOSE

  In this variation, the exact same events transpire as in “Fox and Geese” except for the number of transformations. There is only one: water.

  JAWS

  The possible meanings of Annie’s transformations are often debated. It is commonly considered, however, that her final metamorphosis into a liquid represents a reversal of the Nereid myth in which, without the love of Martin, she reverts to water. This is Martin’s own interpretation.

  In Martin’s story, Annie went to the ocean when he did not return. Sorrow and rage. She tore her clothing. Grief and self-accusation. She stood naked. Love and longing.

  And, with a roar, Annie leapt into the water.

  MARCO POLO

  Martin was unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him, so he shut them again. Had he seen land? Could this ordeal possibly be finished? There was no way to tell unless he opened his eyes, but he refused. Better to let the wind and the tide decide, he told himself. Action is a result of passion; passivity results in activity.

  A warm rush of water passed between Martin’s legs, and he smiled.

  NOTES

  1 Also known as “Annie, Annie, Over.” (BACK)

  2 Should you require more space, feel free to make use of the margins, or the back of the page if that option is available to you. (BACK)

  3 Add more humor. This will also help. (BACK)

  “Oil Country”

  painting by Julian Forrest (2009)

  Oil Country!

  The first time Chris Eaton had sex was after high school — her diploma so fresh it was nearly bleeding — after she’d told her entire graduating class to take a flying fuck off a cactus, not to mention all of their parents and siblings, and more than a few grandparents, who hopefully couldn’t see too well, or didn’t understand, as she flipped them her twin birds of freedom, both hands held high like she was about to take a bow. Which she then did.

  Not that she fared any better at university, packing her things and heading for Maine, which wasn’t necessarily the best school she could get into but was certainly the farthest she could get from Phoenix without leaving the country, barring Alaska and Hawaii, which were distasteful to her for opposite reasons. Besides which, she had problems with at least ten other states, no matter where they were. And Canada? Please.

  Her fellow students, if you could even call them students, were infinitely more interested in screwing and drinking than learning. Having “fun.” The professors were also jokes, several of them barely older than she was, as unconfident as her high school classmates and just as desperate for acceptance or to establish some semblance of authority, or perhaps to mask the not-so-secret lusts they harbored for the prettier bimbettes in her classes, the ones with the pert little bums, button noses and that vague, sexy librarian look, the bookish ones, who would be less likely to make a big deal out of something, or tell anyone. Fuckwits. Most unfortunately, their personal insecurities spilled out into their marking schemes, and they convinced themselves it was ethically repugnant to give any paper a grade over eighty. So the only way she could keep her grade point average high enough to retain her scholarships was to drop English and sign up for courses in Finite Mathematics and Intro to Calculus.

  Math led to Statistics, which led to Sociology, and by the end of her four years, she was somehow emerging with a degree in Psychology, under the guidance of the one brilliant professor in the entire establishment, Dr. Isac Thorne, who was just beginning to make a name for himself in the field of early childhood education with a focus on special needs and terminally ill children. Thorne, unlike the others, was able to see past her looks to her real potential, her real self, unlocking a passion for psychology that might otherwise never have emerged. She spent hours and days beyond what was required of her, helping Thorne in his research, conducting experiments on test groups of sick university students, as well as infants at the medical center in nearby Bangor, and pregnant women in the company of midwives, remaining with those women from inception to a year following the birth.

  With her help, Thorne’s papers on The Effects of Propinquity on Childhood Convalescence (1979), The Presents of Presence: The Gift of Just Being There (1981), and The Singing Paraclete: Deep Comfort in Propinquity for Minors (1984; in which Chris Eaton is thanked directly for her contributions) were widely considered to have changed the hospital system in the late eighties, allowing parents to stay with their children in their rooms while they underwent medical care (before Thorne, no one outside of medical staff was allowed in the wing for fear of spreading disease and infection), even when that child’s situation was considered hopeless. In a speech at The Third International Conference on Health Promotion in Sundsvall, Sweden, in 1991, Thorne laid out the importance of what he called “holistic therapeutic propinquity,” not because of any direct link to concrete, medical benefits (which were nonexistent), but to the less palpable benefits he and his assistants observed when placed directly in the iatric environment. Propinquity, he said, is crucial to all living things, because it enables us to see ourselves through the eyes and heart of another, thereby validating our inner suspicions of self. It is the proof, in some sense, that we exist, and enables us, through others, to see who we really are. He went further, claiming that it is in the first moment when a fetus gains awareness that it exists inside its mother and it is a product of its mother, that contractions begin, and that the retention of that sense of identity is what keeps a person’s heart beating until death, when confusion returns like a signal that the end is coming. Just as Kant said, I think, therefore I am, but with a twist. More like, I think this is who I am, therefore I am. It was why elderly patients seemed to develop senility, failed to recognize the loved ones they had around them, and why dogs went off alone to die. And now they had made the same link to children. Without self-identity, there is no hope. Without hope, there is no chance of survival. Love and compassion, they had discovered, were at the core of personal health. Even simulated love and compassion. But more on that later.

  Once she felt she had a purpose, Chris Eaton experienced other life-altering moments, ones that even momentarily caused her to rethink her position on Phoenix — the sorts of things that happen
to most university students and yet make them think they are unique, too many and too mundane for anyone over the age of twenty-one to bother going into greater detail here — and that many of her presumptions about her city were largely unfounded. But then she’d run into someone from Tucson, which she ordinarily gave more slack than the rest of the state, and it would all come flooding back. Towards the end of her final year, in spite of her best efforts, she even “dated” a boy named Julian from her Honours Class who stalked her briefly in the library’s basement — where she preferred to study because people like him usually avoided it — before walking over one day and asking her to an evening of performance art, without even a hello or warm-up, as if he’d been working up to it for weeks, and she said yes out of pity, then got too drunk and sat on his lap in a pub and avoided him for the next few weeks until Thorne’s legendary graduate party, the night after their final papers were due, with the most exotic cheeses one could hunt down in all of Penobscot County, and mixed drinks they would never have imagined, like red and white vermouth with wedges of lemon and lime, and they smoked pot and listened to records they had brought to impress him, and discussed television shows, the recession, their futures, and smoked more pot, which was her first time, by the way, so she barely even inhaled anything, but just being in the room with so much smoke started to make her feel like she were drifting to the ceiling, looking down on the rest of them while she floated there, watching herself, and them, and herself with them, as if she weren’t really herself, the way she scratched her own face whenever she finished a point, and tried to talk over everyone, hating every single one of them until her teeth hurt, and everyone else seemingly watching her too, as she listed to one side and then the other, reaching for her drink on the coffee table as if she were operating mechanical arms at a nuclear facility, while two of her classmates — one who could barely read and the other with an understanding of Bentham and Festinger that bordered on facile and of Gilroy and Nesmith that more than broached laughable — disappearing out the back door to fuck in the garden, another excusing herself to the bathroom so she could take a peek under Thorne’s bed, and in his closet and drawers, searching for God only knew what, with Dr. Thorne back downstairs finally succumbing to their/her pleas to break out his guitar and play some Cat Stevens, some James Taylor, one of his own (which they/she agreed was beautiful and profound), Julian pretending he had better options with that slut, Carol, over by Thorne’s collection of rocks he and his wife (who was away that weekend visiting her sister who’d just given birth in Chicago) had collected from beaches around the world, as well as places like the Stone Chair of Cairo, the Great Wall, Hadrian’s Wall, various other walls, Julian no doubt trying to sell Carol on the same pathetic story he’d used on her about his ex-girlfriend in New York, the aspiring model who’d stolen his heart with a promise to stay faithful and fallen for a republican Poli-Sci major that she later claimed had a small penis, cradling Carol’s elbow and leaning in to whisper everything in her ear, with Chris still floating up near the wrought-iron light fixture, full of dead flies, watching herself on the couch with Dr. Thorne (“Please, call me Isac . . .”) so that the outsides of their thighs were touching, talking about her plans for the next year, and where she might go for her post-graduate studies, because she should, you know, he believed in her and what she might accomplish, he could even put in a good word for her, he said, he knew people, but she heard so little, concentrating instead on the way his words sounded, nodding her head so he would just keep talking, until people realized the garden couple weren’t coming back, and the snooper had crawled under Thorne’s pile of dirty laundry and passed out, and even Julian and Carol went home, separately and celibately, leaving her alone with Dr. Thorne, on the couch, and on the ceiling watching herself on the couch, leaning in with all the seductive prowess her horribly intoxicated body could muster and, well, fuck Julian, asked him if he wanted to spread her out and eat her whole.