GLASS SOUP

by Jonathan Carroll

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue—Simon’s House of Lipstick

  A Hot, Dark Yes

  Tunica Molesta

  The Moon in the Man

  Petras

  Washing the Buffalo

  Feed Me to Your Sister

  Celadon

  Knee-Deep in Sunday Suits

  A Paper Trumpet

  The Dinosaur Prayer

  Zi Cong Baby Palace

  Drownstairs

  Brogsma

  Epilogue

  GLASS SOUP

  Jonathan Carroll

  To—

  Jeffrey Capshew

  Martina Darnell

  Alice Kricheli

  the most wonderful friends

  Prologue—Simon’s House of Lipstick

  Haden was in trouble again. Big surprise, huh? So what else was new, right? That man wouldn’t have known he had a pulse unless the IRA was closing in, his ex-wife was circling his field with a squadron of divorce lawyers, or a rabid dog had just bitten him on the dick.

  When he opened his eyes that morning this is what immediately filled his mind: he had no money to pay the bills on his desk. His car was dying of three different kinds of automotive cancer. He had to lead a city tour today and if he didn’t do it well this time, he would likely be fired.

  Earlier in his life it was okay when Haden lost a job because there was always another around somewhere. But now, like the last pair of socks in the drawer, there were no more left. He had to wear this one with the big hole in the toe or else go barefoot, and barefoot meant even more trouble.

  Sighing, he threw off the thin purple blanket he’d bought at a Chinese discount store after his wife left him and took everything, including the blankets. But she was right to leave because he was a dog in every way except loyalty. No, that’s not fair. To call Haden a dog was to insult canines. Call him a rat, a weasel; call him a disease with a head. Simon Haden was not a nice man, despite the fact he was a very handsome one.

  His face had been the downfall of not only innumerable trusting women, but also onetime friends, used car dealers who gave him a better deal than they should have, and former bosses who were proud for a while to have such a handsome guy working for them.

  Why do we always, always fall for good looks? Why are we never immune to them? Is it optimism or stupidity? Maybe it’s just hope—you see someone pretty and the sight convinces you that if they can exist, then things are right in the world.

  Uh huh.

  Haden used to say women don’t want to fuck me, they want to fuck my face and he was right. But that was history. Now few women wanted to fuck any part of him. Oh sure, sometimes one down at the end of a bar who’d had too much to drink and begun to see double saw two Hadens and thought he looked like a movie star whose name she couldn’t remember at the moment. But that was rare. Now he usually drank alone and went home alone. He was a shallow, self-absorbed middle-aged man with a fading face and an empty bank account, who gave guided tours of a city that was no longer his friend.

  Why a tour guide? Because it was mindless work once you got the hang of it. And the tourists he led were so interested in what he said. Haden never got over how grateful these people were. They made him feel like he was giving them his city rather than just pointing out its sites.

  Once in a while a good-looking woman would be part of a tour group. They were like an extra tip dropped in Haden’s hand. What a wonderful guide he was on those days! Witty and informative, he knew everything they wanted to know. And what he didn’t know, he made up. That was simple because he had been doing that sort of thing his whole life. His audience never knew the difference. Besides, his lies were so imaginative and interesting. Years later while looking at snapshots of their trip, people would say, “See the dog in that portrait? It lived to be twenty-eight years old and was so loved by the Duke that its gravestone is as big as his.”

  A lie of course, but an interesting one.

  Maybe there would be a pretty woman today. Gripping the sink with both hands, Haden stared into the bathroom mirror and said a little prayer: Let there be a beautiful female face today in that crowd of blue hairs, hearing aids, and TV-sized eyeglasses. In his mind he saw them all—saw their cream-colored crepe-soled shoes the size of small hydrofoils, the permapressed leisure suits a thousand years out of fashion. He heard their loud voices full of whines and never-ending questions—where’s the castle, the toilet, the restaurant, the bus? Was one beautiful face asking so much? A daughter along for the ride, a nubile granddaughter, someone’s nurse, anything to spare him a day surrounded by the House of Lipstick. He said those words slowly into the mirror, as if he were an actor learning his lines. Today he was guiding a group of people from the House of Lipstick. What was that, a store that sold only lipstick? Or a business that manufactured it? He would know more when he opened the envelope given to him at work, detailing the job.

  He smiled, imagining twenty old people with lipstick-smeared lips, all very attentive to what he was saying. Glistening red lips, the color of a clown’s nose or a dog’s rubber ball. Sighing, he picked up his toothbrush and began to prepare for the day.

  Because Simon Haden was a very vain man, his small closet was bursting with the best clothes—Avon Celli cashmere sweaters, one-two-three-four Richard James suits, one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar belts. He certainly had good taste and style, but neither had helped him much over the years. Yes, they had enabled him to fool some of the people some of the time. But sooner or later everyone, even the dumbbells, figured Haden out and then invariably he was out: out of a job, out of a marriage, out of chances.

  What’s most interesting about people like him, even more than their pretty faces, is that they almost never understand why the world eventually ends up hating them. Haden had done terrible things to people. But for the life of him, he could not understand why he had ended up where he was now—living alone in a lousy cramped apartment, working a no-exit job, and spending far too much free time at the TV watching whatever was in front of his eyeballs. He knew which wrestlers were feuding with whom in professional wrestling. He had given serious consideration to buying those Japanese steak knives on the Shopping Channel. He carefully taped his favorite daytime soap operas if he had to miss an episode.

  How did I end up like this?

  If someone had told Simon Haden that he was a colossal prick and why, he would not have understood. He would not have denied it, he would not have understood. Because pretty people think the world should forgive whatever their sins are simply because they exist.

  He finished in the bathroom and went to the bedroom. The envelope containing the day’s instructions lay on the dresser. In his underpants and sheer black socks, he picked it up and tore it open.

  A little man the size of a candy bar stepped out of the envelope into his hand.

  “Haden, how you doin’?”

  “Broximon! Long time no see. How are you?”

  Broximon, dressed in a beautiful blue pinstriped suit, brushed off both arms as if being inside that envelope had dirtied them. “Can’t complain, can’t complain. How’re you?”

  Haden carefully put him down on the table and then pulled up a chair.

  “Hey Simon, put some clothes on before we chat. I don’t wanna be talkin’ to a dude in his underpants.”

  Haden smiled and went off to choose an outfit for the day. While waiting for him, Broximon took out a tiny portable CD player and turned on some Luther Vandross.

  With the music cooking in his ears, Broximon walked to the edge of the table and sat down with his legs dangling over the side. Haden sure lived low. The man’s apartment showed no signs of life. No texture, no soul, nothing there that made you go, whoa, that’s cool. Brox
imon was a firm believer in “to each his own,” but when you’re in a man’s home, you can’t help looking around, right? And if you see that apartment ain’t got nothing inside it but the heat, well then that’s just the truth of the situation. You’re not making any sort of value judgment; you’re just reporting what you see. Which in this case wasn’t much, that’s for damned sure.

  “So I’m showing around this House of Lipstick today, right?” Haden came in wearing a formal white shirt open at the neck and a sharp pair of black slacks that looked like they had cost serious money.

  “That’s right.” Broximon reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “A group of twelve. And the part you’ll like is that they’re almost all women, average age thirty.”

  Haden’s face lit up. His prayer had been answered! He couldn’t believe his luck. “What’s the story with them?”

  “Did you ever hear of Mallvelous in Secaucus, New Jersey?”

  “No.” Haden looked to see if Broximon was joking with that stupid name.

  “Biggest shopping mall in the Tri-State area. Then someone started a fire in it and it became the biggest shopping mall fire ever in the Tri-State area.”

  Haden checked his pockets to make sure he had everything—keys, wallet. Then he asked without much interest, “How many died in the fire?”

  “Twenty-one, over half of them in the House of Lipstick. The fire started right next to their shop and so they didn’t have much chance of escaping.”

  “What was it, some kind of cosmetics store?”

  “Yup. The guy who owned it—you’ll meet him today—had himself a good little business because that’s all he sold. Just about every brand of lipstick on the earth. You know how everybody’s crazy for specialty shops these days. He had brands from the weirdest places, like Paraguay. You never think of women wearing lipstick in Paraguay, you know?”

  Haden stopped walking around the room and stared at Broximon. “Why not?”

  The little man was instantly embarrassed. “I don’t know. Because it’s—I don’t know. Because it’s fucking Paraguay.”

  “So what?”

  For want of anything better to do, Broximon stood and brushed off both sleeves again. In a cranky voice he asked, “Are you ready to go or not?”

  Haden stared at him a moment longer, his expression saying he thought the little man was an idiot. The message was conveyed loud and clear. Finally he nodded.

  “Good! So let’s go, huh?”

  Haden picked up Broximon, placed him on his right shoulder, and left the apartment.

  He always met the tour bus outside the café where he ate his breakfast. The bus driver was one of those saps taken in by Haden’s good looks and sometimes-charm and was more than happy to detour a few blocks out of his way to pick up the tour guide.

  The bus doors hissed open. Simon Haden charged up the steps, lit from within by two cups of strong cappuccino and the optimism that comes with knowing you are going to spend the day with a bunch of young women. The bus driver, Fleam Sule, waved one of its many tentacles in greeting at Simon. Then with another tentacle it pressed a button to close the door. Haden had always loved octopuses. Or was it octopi? He would have to ask Fleam Sule that some day, but not right now because Women Ahoy!

  Winking at the octopus bus driver, Haden put on his best, most winning smile and turned to face the passengers.

  Outside on the street, Broximon stood and watched as the bus pulled away from the curb. A maple leaf blown by the wind collided with him, hiding the tiny man completely from view for a second. He brusquely pushed it away and the leaf fled down the street. Shaking his head, Broximon reached into his pocket and took out a cell phone the size of a pencil eraser. Speed-dialing a number, he waited for it to connect.

  “Hi there, it’s Brox. Yes, I was just with him.” Broximon listened while the other voice said something long and involved.

  Down at the corner the traffic light turned green. The tour bus took a left and disappeared into the city.

  Broximon started going up and down on his toes and looking at the sky as the other person talked on. Eventually he was able to interject, “Look, Haden doesn’t get it yet. It’s as simple as that. He doesn’t have the slightest clue. Do you understand what I’m saying? He’s not even on the map yet.” Broximon saw a bright red cookie wrapper skittering down the street toward him. He started moving out of its way long before it arrived. Seeing it pass reminded him that he hadn’t had breakfast yet. That made him doubly impatient to get off the telephone and find a place to eat. “Look, Bob, I don’t know how better to tell you—he doesn’t get it. There is not one indication that Simple Simon sees the big picture.”

  Listening some more to the voice on the other end, Broximon was no longer paying much attention. To amuse himself, he stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes. After holding that pose for a while, he couldn’t take the other’s verbal diarrhea anymore. So he said, “What? Huh? What? I’m losing you. We’re losing our connection here—” Then he pressed the disconnect button and turned off the phone altogether. “Enough. Breakfast time.”

  It took several seconds for Haden’s eyes to adjust to the blue dark inside the bus. He was so eager to see the women that he squinted hard to distinguish who sat facing him. The first thing he saw was a cassowary in a green dress. Do you know what a cassowary is? Neither did Haden, nor did he remember the one time he had seen one at a zoo in Vienna. He had stopped to look at it, thinking once again how weird nature could be.

  Seeing that giant bird staring at him now, his eyes narrowed in dismay. Oh no, they weren’t going to do this to him again, were they? He remembered one tour he’d lead where—

  “Excuse me?”

  Trying to locate the face, he worked very hard to overcome his growing distrust. “Yes?” He hoped his voice sounded happy and helpful.

  “Is there a lavatory on this bus?”

  Lavatory. When was the last time he’d heard that ridiculous word used, fourth grade? Smirking a little, he looked toward the questioner. Seeing her, his smirk died and Haden almost yawped because she was absolutely hair-raisingly beautiful. And blind.

  That’s right—even in that shadowy space he could plainly see the woman’s eyes were so deep set in her head that they could not possibly have been functional.

  “Uh, yes, there’s a, uh, lavatory at the back of the bus on the left side.” Absurdly and without thinking he beamed his best, most winning smile at her.

  Like a crazy young dog pulling on its leash, all Haden wanted to do then was race down the aisle to her side and ask everything. What was her name, why was she there, where had she come from… He held himself back though and tried to calm his mad-to-get there impulse. He silently chanted to himself slowly, slowly—do this right.

  For the first time since being hired to do this miserable job, Simon Haden was glad to be a tour guide; glad that today’s sightseeing would last for hours. It was the top dollar, see everything, fifteen stops, watch your step getting off the bus tour. Normally he loathed it. Today with this blind angel along for the ride, it would be bliss.

  Not that it mattered now, but he looked over the rest of the passengers on the bus. There were a few people, a few animals, two cartoon characters, and an almost six foot tall bag of caramels. Nothing special, nothing new. If they had been his only customers that day, it would have taken a real effort to rise to their occasion. But with the angel sitting on the aisle in row seven, he was going to enchant them all.

  He picked up the bus microphone and turned it on. Blowing into it once, he heard his short puff resound throughout the bus speakers, proof that the thing was working. Sometimes it didn’t and to add insult to injury, he ended the day hoarse.

  “Good morning and welcome on board!”

  As one, the humans, animals, and cartoon characters smiled at him. But the giant transparent bag of beige candy shuffled impatiently in its seat. Let’s go, it appeared to be saying. Let’s get this show on the road.


  Haden disliked caramels. He ate a lot of candy because he had a sweet tooth, but caramels were too much work and too much trouble. Invariably they stuck in his teeth like gluey pests and had once even pulled out an expensive filling when he ate one at his parents’ house. But they were very much a part of his childhood memories because his father loved caramels and was always eating them. His mother stationed little plates of the golden squares all around the house for her man.

  “Today we’re going to try and give you a pretty good overview of the city. We’ll be starting in the center naturally and then working our way out—”

  “Excuse me?”

  He recognized her voice immediately and with a dazzling smile that could have lit the inside of the bus like a thousand-watt lightbulb, he turned to the beautiful blind woman, ready to heed her every wish. “Yes?”

  “Is there a lavatory on this bus?”

  The only way to make beauty ugly is to show it’s crazy. Like twisting the top off a jar of something wonderful to eat, the moment he’s hit by the terrible smell of it gone bad, even the hungriest person will drop the jar in the trash without a second thought.

  Haden took a short quick breath as if he’d been punched in the stomach. She had already asked that question one minute ago. Was she crazy? Was all that beauty wasted because she had scrambled eggs for brains? Or maybe she just hadn’t heard his initial response. Was that possible? Maybe she’d been distracted or thinking about something else when he had specifically said—

  He stared at her, not really knowing what to say now. And as he stared, something dawned on him. He knew this woman. We rarely forget great beauty but sometimes it does happen. He ignored her question now because something in him kept saying I know her face. But where did he know it from?

  The bus suddenly jolted to an abrupt stop, knocking Haden way off balance. He turned to see what had made the driver slam on the brakes like that. Through the front windshield he saw a school class of young kids being shepherded across the street by a middle-aged black woman wearing a vibrantly colored dashiki and an Afro haircut that made her head look like a round, carefully trimmed hedge. When all of the kids had crossed the street and were safely on the other side, the woman raised a hand and wriggled her fingers in thanks to the bus driver for stopping. At first Haden didn’t recognize the woman, her Afro hairdo or dashiki; it was her wriggle. He knew that wriggle. He had lived with it for almost a year at one time in his life. Seconds later he was absolutely sure of her. He knew the wriggle, knew the gesture, and now he knew the woman who made it.