by Jim Krusoe
The truth is that Junior has no idea what his father looks like, except when he looks in the mirror: a tallish individual, not getting any younger, who favors plaid shirts, and who has a beard that makes him look like a lumberjack or a sea captain.
And sometimes, standing in front of the mirror looking at himself impersonating his father, he likes to pretend that his father is talking:
“Junior, how can you be so stupid?”
“Junior, what is wrong with you?”
“Junior, what the hell are you thinking of with that crossbow? Aren’t you man enough to shoot a gun?”
“Answer me, Junior. What is wrong with you, anyway?”
“Fuck you, Dad,” says Junior.
Today’s lecture is one the Captain has given plenty of times, and it’s always a hit, but then, you never know, so he looks around. The hall, a Masonic one, with dark wood and plenty of protractor symbols, is almost full. The hoodlums who have plagued such events at times in the past appear to be absent. So far everything looks good.
The Captain is wearing his dress uniform, of course, complete with peaked hat, fresh pressed trousers, an acanthus in his lapel, and then—here we go again—some skinny guy comes up to give the introduction: “fighting pirates to a standstill . . . international authority in matters of the sea . . . colorful . . . beloved spokesperson for seafood jerky . . . etc.” He’s heard it so many times he’s almost nodding off.
Applause, and the Captain ascends the three steps to the lectern. Takes a deep breath. Go. Stands up straight and sort of squints, as if he is looking out through the mist from the wheelhouse, a look he practices some mornings through his front window. “It was a rainy morning in the Nicolas Islands, and I was at a little backwater port called Misha, south of Burma on the Andaman Sea,” he begins. He has a nice, deep voice; he always has.
The audience settles in. He can feel them relax. “The sky that day was as black as a . . . and here he pauses not just for dramatic effect, but because he’s going to try out a new simile, and wants to get it right “. . . a black bear that has just wandered into a subtropical river and now has emerged to stand dripping over a native, who, weary from a long day’s toil, lies taking a nap on his straw mat on the riverbank, unaware that this nap will be his last.” Does that work or does it go too far?
A few audience members shift in their seats; a couple pokes each other. The Captain is pleased. The truth is, he has only about six talks to draw on, total, but he figures that if he can keep changing up the similes and so forth, maybe people won’t notice. Still, sooner or later of course they will, and he’ll be out of a living. For now, however, the Captain remains what he is—a minor celebrity—and his talks have become a sort of St. Nils tradition, like the reading of “A Christmas Carol” at Christmas.
The Captain again looks out over the hall. Are the crowds getting smaller? He counts the empty chairs. Fifteen. It’s hard to say.
Raymond looks at the rows of ducks around him: At first we humans were animals just like you, he says to them. Then things started to change, until what have we become? What are we now?
The ducks remain silent, and they do not move at all.
TRANSCRIPT OF CONVERSATION FROM THE TECHNICAL STAFF
Tech #1: What is the name of this stuff they feed us, anyway?
Tech #2: They don’t have a name for it, but I call it slop.
Tech #1: Then why don’t they call it slop?
Tech #2: Are you kidding? Who would eat anything called slop?
Tech #1: But you eat it, don’t you? I do, too.
Tech #2: Well, slop is what I call it when I’m talking about it with you, but the truth is that I made up another name for it, one I don’t tell anyone else, but which helps me keep it down.
Tech #1: Will you tell me, so maybe I can feel better about eating it?
Tech #2: I’m sorry. You’ll have to get your own names for things.
Tech #1: And why do they get real food, while we’re the ones who have to eat this?
Tech #2: Honestly, I don’t have the answer to that. I’ve wondered myself. All I can say is the reason must be above my pay grade.
Tech #1: You mean our pay grade.
Twilight souls, caught somewhere between dark and light, knowing and unknowing.
Neither one thing nor another. A crossbreed race.
A crossbow.
And not a race at all.
VIII
At the Masonic Hall, the Captain studies the crowd again; they are still good; they are still with him. He goes on: “I was standing in the shabby office of the harbormaster, a cunning fellow by the name of Ali Khan, waiting to complete the paperwork required before my vessel, the Shanghai Pearl, could leave the harbor. The papers were an important matter because, as I stood peering around in the darkness of the man’s office, the Pearl was still at dockside, loaded with several tons of tuna kept cool on ice. But as dark and damp as it was inside the office, it was still unbearably hot, and the ice aboard my ship was melting fast.”
What is it about stories, the Captain wonders, that people want so much to hear them? Is it that they represent a knowledge people imagine they don’t have? That stories take people on voyages to places that are different from their own pathetic wanderings? Is it that stories, unlike most people’s miserable existences, have definable boundaries, have beginnings and known endings, whereas in real life we discover ourselves dropped onstage midway through some ongoing dramatic series, or maybe a situation comedy, and we’re expected to figure out what role we’re to play, never knowing if this current episode will be the last or will be renewed by the network for another season? Sitcoms—he knows a little something about them, too, he’s sorry to report.
“I could see Ali Khan sipping some native firewater from a tall bottle on his desk,” the Captain continues, “as he measured me in the light of the two oil lamps burning in his office. The lamp on his desk cast its yellow glow over his official papers, while the second lamp, on top of a file cabinet, had been seemingly placed for the sole purpose of illuminating Old Lucifer, a stuffed fighting gamecock that, Ali Khan explained, had been a legend in his day and that he had won at cards from a drunken deserter from the Russian Navy. The rooster’s fighting spurs and the silver bells on his tiny cap glinted in the thin light of the harbormaster’s second lamp like a beacon beckoning me to I knew not what.”
“I knew not what . . . ” What a load of crap this is, the Captain thinks. And now it’s time for a sip of water. He drinks.
“I paused to see what other objects I could make out. Besides Old Lucifer, I could see nothing through the gloom except six glass jars atop Ali Khan’s massive desk. Each was filled with sharpened pencils, even though the point of the pencil he was holding in his hand at that very moment was worn, hardly a point at all, as it hovered above a sheet of foolscap covered with images of crudely drawn dirigibles, each dropping a stream of egg-shaped bombs. The bombs’ trajectories were represented by a series of dotted lines that stretched from the bellies of the dirigibles where they had been released to the plummeting bombs themselves.”
The Captain speaks the word bombs with a special push, and is satisfied to see the audience straighten. Nothing like the promise of violence to make the swine sit up, he thinks.
And where is Louis? Jeffery wonders. Sometimes he pictures him shuffling his slippers down some dusty sidewalk outside the Burrow, wearing his sweater, lugging bags of groceries to whatever new abode he’s found, and at other times he sees Louis on vacation, strolling to or returning from the beach wearing the same slippers he wore while in the Burrow, but now amid a flock of tanned and luscious bodies and without the sweater, because it’s too hot for that. But most often in Jeffery’s mind Louis is doing something simple, like trying on hats at the Mad Hatter’s in the mall. Did Louis wear hats? The truth is that because he never saw the man outside the Burrow he has no idea, but a fedora would look good on him. Louis should wear a hat, Jeffery thinks. It’s not too late. Or is i
t?
“‘Mon cher Captain,’ Ali Khan said,” the Captain tells his audience, “‘it is a very great pity, but with our newly installed government many, many additional forms have arrived, and these will need to be completed before you can leave the port. I hate to mention it, but it is no longer the old days, Captain, when a person such as you could arrive and sail out in a single afternoon. With all these new forms to be dealt with, I cannot imagine you departing before a week has passed, perhaps five days at the very soonest.’
“As Ali Khan took a sip from a filthy glass of ghastly colored liquid and awaited my reply, I studied him. He was thin, and his olive skin and dark hair reminded me of nothing so much as the breadsticks my mother used to bake and let me poke into a pot of prune jam when I was a boy.
“‘But surely, Ali Khan,’ I said, ‘for an experienced manager such as yourself, there must be some way to expedite matters.’ I stopped, omitting the perishable nature of my cargo. We both understood that in twenty-four more hours the fish aboard the Shanghai Pearl would be absolutely spoiled, and the ship’s owners’ fortunes ruined, and I didn’t want to give him an extra card to display before me.
“Ali Khan shut his catlike eyes and pretended to be deep in thought. Then he opened them, one at a time, a trick that I later became familiar with in other offices of government officials in that part of the world—but whatever they hoped to accomplish by employing it I could never understand. He pretended to stare at a ceiling fan that, while impossible to see, I could hear churning its way through the darkness. Ali Khan returned his gaze to me, and said nothing. I had a good idea of what he was up to.
“‘I wonder,’ I suggested, ‘if there is any way that you might be able to find someone you can trust—possibly a relative of yours—who might have a few free moments to ensure that the forms are correctly filled out. I would be willing to pay as much as one hundred dollars an hour if such a person could be found.’
“Ali Khan laughed, as if he found the possibility of such an original notion to be highly entertaining. Meanwhile, I crouched on my side of his massive desk like a tiger, a man-eater such as I often observed, who, too wounded or too old to hunt more challenging game, settles on the easiest prey of all, native flesh. Above us, the sounds of the fan struggled through the blackness, and outside the open window I could hear the cries of umbrella vendors hawking flimsy domes that had been hastily constructed out of palm leaves and plastic grocery bags. The two of us sat as still as the hand-carved statues of the Buddha that could be bought cheaply at the local market.”
One night, after an especially late dance practice thanks to a few extra sessions at the barre, Ballerina Mouse is walking (no, limping) home, because at that hour the buses have all stopped running. Her foot hurts more than usual, and she’s only about halfway home, passing through the part of town that is mostly vacant lots, when suddenly she sees a bright light in the sky overhead. It comes closer, and as much as she would like to hide, it seems as if she’s somehow paralyzed. The next thing she knows, she’s being pulled upward . . .
No, this is stupid.
The audience in the Masonic Hall is quiet, no doubt engrossed by the thought of another native eaten, this one by a tiger, not a bear. This is going well, the Captain thinks. He can almost feel his Death Quotient dropping by the minute, to what—maybe seventeen, or even twelve?
“And at last, after what seemed a long time, Ali Khan spoke from a sort of twilight reverie. ‘Cher Captain,’ he said, ‘I have recalled my entire family tree (as I believe is the term used by you Westerners), on the sides of both my father and my mother, and I am sorry to report that all the fruits of its various branches are at present engaged in important business; otherwise I am sure they would be only too happy to help. It is an honor, to be sure, to be a member of such a talented and educated family, but it unfortunately means there are no available deadbeats—a curious word, if I am using it correctly—who can be pressed into such a service as you demand at a moment’s notice. I myself, as you can see, am kept constantly busy by the pressures of my office. Nor, for obvious reasons, is it permitted for you to complete the forms yourself.’
“As he spoke, I could see the pleasure these words gave him. Meanwhile, I reached into my sea bag and removed a bottle of liquor similar to the one that was already open, but one whose contents were of a slightly less reprehensible hue. I placed it next to the first on his desk. Saying nothing, Ali Khan ran a finger over his narrow mustache, as if the bottle had arrived on his desk of its own accord and he was now waiting to see what it would do next.”
What, if anything, might have prepared Raymond for his residence in the Burrow?
Basements, certainly, and closets. Swimming underwater. Reading by flashlight a book under the covers. Linen chests. Caves. Cardboard boxes. Crawling inside cardboard boxes and closing the flaps behind him. Crawling inside cardboard boxes and closing the flaps behind him, then sealing them from the inside with packing tape. Crawling inside cardboard boxes and closing the flaps behind him, then sealing them with packing tape and shutting his eyes. A baby duck he once had as a pet when he was young.
What has prepared Heather for her life in the Burrow?
Sleep, being hit over the head once in sixth grade and losing consciousness for a minute, waking up to find out someone had pushed her off the swings.
A life made of air.
The Captain winks at the audience to let them know that they don’t have to worry about the outcome of this particular battle of wits. As usual, after his speech and the subsequent Q & A, there will be some kind of program, an installation of new officers, the handing out of trophies, and certificates of merit, and plaques—a whole industry based solely on vanity—and as usual, he’ll sneak out before that gets started.
The Captain returns to his story: “‘I understand you entirely, Ali Khan, and it was precisely because of the rest of your family’s talent that I had hoped to find a suitable person to fill in the forms in question.’”
He pauses to let his audience absorb this thought, then continues. “In response, Ali Khan gave me an insincere smile and poured some of my gift into a fresh filthy glass. The man filled it halfway, studied it, and topped it off with more liquor from the bottle he had been drinking from earlier. For what seemed an eternity, the two of us watched the color change from green to light blue. Then Ali Khan placed one of his slender fingers in the liquid, removed it, lifted it into his mouth, and kept it there, evidently appreciating the intermingling of the two alcohols with his own sweat and God knows what else may have been beneath the nail of that unspeakable digit. At last he removed his finger from his mouth and wiped it on the blotter of his desk, which was marked, I could see, by many similar stains.
“Seeming to ignore me, Ali Khan returned to his drawings, adding several more bombs, and also three more lighter-than-air craft. These new bombs, I observed, appeared designed not to kill or maim, but were apparently aimed solely at groups of large-breasted women, with the bomb’s sole mission being to remove their blouses. I watched as Ali Khan filled sheet after sheet with undressed women. Meanwhile, I knew the ice atop my fish was melting.”
The Captain pauses and takes another sip of water, not because he is thirsty—he’s endured far worse than this—but to let the drama of the slowly ripening cargo of fish sink in. He guesses he has four, maybe five more years of making a living this way and then he’ll have to think of something else. Maybe a blog: “The Captain’s Table.”
And Junior? Is he doing some project with his crossbow about now, or what?
He is not. Not at this moment, anyway.
Likewise, it is also possible to think you have touched a thing when you have not, and to believe you have remained untouched when this is not the case.
“At that moment,” the Captain says, “Ali Khan looked up at me. ‘My dear Captain,’ he said, accompanying his words with a sort of smirk, ‘forgive me, but I just remembered. It seems I have a certain successful cousin whose specialt
y is surgery of the brain, and most important, in terms of our current problem, he is at present under disciplinary suspension for neglecting to wash his hands before he operates. I have known my cousin—Piggy, as I call him—since we both were children, and in addition to being a surgeon, I can promise you he excels at filling out government forms. What do you say I ring him up and see if he has any free time?’
“‘That would be excellent,’ I told him.
“‘In that case, there is one small matter we need to discuss,’ said Ali Khan.
“I pretended I didn’t already know what he had in mind. ‘What is that?’
“‘It is this,’ he said. ‘While I am sure your initial estimate of one or two hundred dollars an hour is more than generous for an ordinary person—indeed, it would seem a fortune to a person such as myself—for my cousin, who is a professional man and whose usual fees are far greater, he would surely consider such a modest amount to be an insult.’
“‘How much do you think he would consider fair?’ I asked.
“‘To take just one example,’ said Ali Khan, ‘his fee for a simple lobotomy, which takes only about thirty minutes, start to finish, is the equivalent of five hundred US dollars and, even as quickly as Piggy works, it is my professional opinion you will need a minimum of five hours to complete such paperwork.’
“‘Ah,’ I said. ‘And Piggy, when he performs his surgeries, does he give his patients any anesthesia?’
“‘Of course,’ said Ali Khan.
“‘In that case,’ I said, ‘assuming that the anesthesiologist charges three hundred dollars an hour, then wouldn’t Piggy’s rate actually be closer to seven hundred dollars per hour?’