Down the Road to Eternity

by M. A. C. Farrant

  A wonderful dog, Robinson. Cecil Beaton begged for months to take my picture and I only consented if Robinson could be in the picture as well. I told Cecil: You mustn’t photograph me close-up, I detest that sort of inspection—you must take my picture from a distance, as if I’m glimpsed from across a room at a crowded party or a hotel lobby, as if people were saying, “Ah, there goes Mrs. Parker. You know who Mrs. Parker is, don’t you? Why, she’s … ” The darling of the New York art world, I might have added—the enfant terrible at the heart of the literary scene.

  The picture Cecil finally settled on as his creation has me seated formally, a side shot facing left. I’m dressed for the outdoors in a hat, a long coat with a fur collar and holding a fur muff; you only see half of my face which was fine with me—I’ve never been terribly excited by my own face, too tiny and dark for my liking. In this picture Robinson is placed on the ground and facing me so that his body is in profile as well; his head is cocked, his muscular body taut, expectant.

  My beloved Robinson; I never let him out of my sight. He even escorted me when I spoke to the Dream Come True Club. This was during the height of my fame—people couldn’t get enough of me. It was a very swank club in the upper Eighties; several hundred members turned out. After a fine meal of Scotch and more Scotch I rose from my perch at the head table and gave the speech.

  I told the audience how I’d really wanted to be a famous fire-eater, wearing a black sequined gown and a red feathered hat, the flame in my torch threatening to immolate me there and then. I told them that this writing of words is pale by comparison—there’s no hooplah, no costumes, no real danger. Any fire we writers consume is of our own making—the stuff of sound and air—and if our words are not hot enough, do not set hearts and minds aflame, if what we hurl into the world doesn’t catch fire …

  The applause was generous, the audience pleased. They liked how I had settled for second best, this writing of stories and verse. Afterwards several of them asked for my recipe for writing success and I wrote it down on small index cards: three parts bullshit, one part spit.

  Shortly after, I told this story at a party of Edna’s. Oh I was lit. The party was to celebrate something or other; we were never short of things to celebrate. Edna’s new book of poems perhaps. We were all gathered in the garden because Edna was showing us her outdoor writing table, a perfectly boring wood table set beneath the trees. Who the hell cares about her writing table? I mentioned as much to a man standing beside me. Darling, I told him, you wouldn’t believe where I write my things—in bed, on the john, in the back seats of taxis. Oh, I do believe I’ll conduct a tour of my john the next chance I get, I told him, and he laughed.

  Anyway people went on and on about Edna’s table, several of the crowd slobbering, practically licking the cursed thing when this odious woman, one of those overly dressed society matrons, bosom extending from neck to knee, spoke up, declaring to Edna: So this is where you do it! This is where you construct your famous poems. Reaching up to the overhead sky with those skilful hands and grabbing fistfuls of dappled light. Stirring this light into your poems. So that’s how it’s done; this is why your poems glow.

  You want glow, I shouted, I’ll bet you’ve never seen a fire-eater. And I flicked my lighter, arched my neck and opened my mouth. The crowd gasped, jumped back, then fled. Edna grabbing her book of poems lest they fall prey to a stray spark. Everyone gathering inside the house to sip champagne and pop cool cucumber sandwiches into their admiring mouths. (My mouth has never admired anything.)

  Leaving me to perform alone in the garden with Robinson as my only audience. It was a wonderful performance. Not a flame wasted, not a delicate nose hair singed. A performance executed smoothly and in the grand eccentric tradition. I am, after all, an idiot savant for beauty.

  There we were in the garden. My grandest performance. With Robinson watching, panting and blinking his applause.

  CLOSING TIME AT BARBIE’S BOUTIQUE

  “The problem,” Barbie said to Skipper, “is the ones with fat arms and purple-white skin. They buy something sleeveless and want to wear it home. Then you have to reach up to their fetid armpits and cut the tag. It can knock you over.”

  “I hate the ones without underpants,” said Skipper. “Yesterday a woman trying on a jump-suit wanted help with the buttons and right there in front of me was her bush. No way was I going near that thing.”

  “What did you do?” asked Barbie.

  “Nothing,” said Skipper. “They all think you’re their mother: love them, love their bush, don’t care how they look. I just hung the jump-suit back on the rack and hoped some dummy doesn’t get a social disease from trying it on. I’m just thankful I don’t have pubic hair.”

  “Amen to that,” said Barbie.

  “I wish,” though, said Skipper, “that I didn’t feel so miserable. Sometimes being human seems almost attractive.”

  “Bite your perfect lips,” said Barbie. “What you need is a change. Why don’t you do something with those braids?”

  “Yes, I could definitely do with a change,” said Skipper.

  “You should get out more,” said Barbie. “Have a few laughs. Too bad I’m saving seal pups in the Arctic next weekend.”

  “Couldn’t I come along?”

  “Not this time,” said Barbie. “I promised Ken. He’s taking pictures of me for my Christmas Sticker Book.”

  “Oh,” said Skipper. “Tough tit, them’s the breaks.”

  “Cheer up,” said Barbie. “Think about the seventeen midgets in here last week wanting car coats.”

  “That was funny,” said Skipper. “Or the time the hunchback wanted an evening gown.”

  “Yes, that was a laugh,” said Barbie. “Very funny. Then there was that bus load of women all celebrating their one-hundredth birthdays. Came in just to look around. Erotic pawing of lingerie.”

  “I liked the male nurses,” said Skipper.

  “They all slobbered,” said Barbie. “I saw them slobbering. Drooling, lusting beasts.”

  “I could do with one of those,” said Skipper. “A drooling, lusting beast would just about fit the bill.”

  “Never heard from Brad again? Where’d he get to?”

  “A younger model,” said Skipper. “Traded me in for a younger model. One of those new flexible jobs that bends at the knees. A stick with legs. Why do these things happen? What’s the matter with perpetual twelve?”

  “Nothing’s the matter with perpetual twelve,” said Barbie. “At least you’re not close to mature. Like that antique in here this morning. Did you see her fingernails? Enough dirt in there to start a rooftop herb garden. Wanted polyester.”

  “Figures,” said Skipper.

  “Even so,” said Barbie, “I have my principles. I won’t sell something that looks bad on a customer.”

  “Unless,” said Skipper.

  “Unless,” said Barbie, “they’re beyond hope. And many are beyond hope. Most are beyond hope.”

  “The flowered silk on the fatties,” said Skipper.

  “The black and purple bikinis on the stringy broads looking like they’re on their last bag of dog food,” said Barbie.

  “How do you do it?” said Skipper. “How do you keep Ken?”

  “Well,” said Barbie, “I’m always light and gay and full of fun. Plus I’m not bad looking.”

  “You’re a knockout,” said Skipper. “You’re a beautiful American doll.”

  “Make the most with what you’ve got,” said Barbie. “Work on your personality.”

  “If only I had your hair, your perfect nipple-less breasts,” said Skipper.

  “Well you are supposed to be only twelve,” said Barbie.

  “I want your longer legs,” said Skipper. “Your Crystal Barbie Gown.”

  “Always look on the bright side,” said Barbie. “Learn to be a good sport. In a pinch, dreamboats like Ken just love plucky little girls who are good sports.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Skipper. “Like the o
ne in here on Tuesday? Ooze of good sport?”

  “Not that much good sport,” said Barbie. “Horse teeth, saddle thighs. It makes you wonder. People, they’re quite revolting. The one in here on Groundhog Day. A walking cadaver.”

  “Sequined suit, no bum?”

  “The very one,” said Barbie. “Imagine being all tarted up at eighty! Bird bones dressed as nouvelle cuisine. Imagine having a life and having it just about over.”

  “It boggles the acrylic hair,” said Skipper.

  “Thank Mattel we’re spared all that,” said Barbie. “The worst that can happen to us is competition from newer, more supple models. But they’ll never have the prestige we have. We were here first; we’re quality.”

  “You really think so?” said Skipper.

  “Of course,” said Barbie. “We’re number one. We’ve been around a long time and we’re still as firm as ever. You’ve still got your original lip paint! And consider this: we lose a leg, no problem, a new one can always be found—whole businesses are devoted to manufacturing parts for us. And you can’t say that about the human models; it’s the green garbage bags for them before long.”

  “The worst that can happen to us,” said Barbie, “is being left too long in the sun—the slow melt of our features. Or being tossed from a car window by an unpleasant child. Or being left to soak too long in the bathtub and having black mould growing around our neck, arm, and leg holes. And even if some child cuts off all our hair, it can be replaced in any colour we want. But it’s best not to dwell on negative things. That’s Barbie’s Motto. And when you think of it, most of us are cherished and you can’t say that about humans. And we have the best, most fashionable wardrobes, too. Some of us even have our own Boutiques! And swimming pools! And Southern Mansions!”

  “I fear the feminists,” said Skipper. “The leather pants and crew cut brigade. They’d be happy if we didn’t exist. They’d like nothing better than to melt us down for dildos.”

  “Nonsense,” said Barbie, “They probably played with us when they were little. Everyone’s had a Barbie.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Skipper.

  “Are you still fretting about Brad?” said Barbie. “Look on the bright side. At least you don’t have a hairless head. Like the one in here on Hallowe’en.”

  “What did it want?” said Skipper. “Trick or treat?”

  “Combat boots,” said Barbie.

  “Ha, ha,” said Skipper. “I think I’m feeling better.”

  “Good,” said Barbie. “If you stay close to your sister Barbie, you’ll concentrate on the carefree days of youth, your days will be filled with adventures and you’ll always be smiling. Now don’t you think it’s better to be a doll?”

  “Yes. Yes I do,” said Skipper.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Barbie. “Now help me unpack this carton. It has my new Swiss Chalet inside and I can’t wait to try on my new ski fashions. And if you promise to keep smiling and keep that pretty little head of yours empty, I just might find something in here for you to try on, too.”

  JIGSAW

  Oh that Leonard Cohen. He turns up when you’d least expect him. Dinner time, for example, when we’re sitting down to our meagrer meal, our Gregorian Chant meal, it being several lifetimes before payday. I was just dishing up the beans to those of us humbly assembled and turned to my left and there he was sitting next to Henny calm as you please.

  I’m very fond of beans, Leonard Cohen said, looking searchingly into my eyes, lingering he was in my eyes, we were having what you might call a moment of hesitation across a sea of beans. And I said, yes, I love beans too, they being high on my list, right up there at the top of my list of poverty food, and I love a man who loves beans. And Henny, a man who’s loved without hesitation, said yes, good old beans, we all enjoy a satisfying meal of beans, but not any beans, not canned beans or boiled beans or fried or sautéed beans but raw beans, these being the most economical way to consume bean nutrition and we’re everything for nutrition at this table, yes everything, because sometimes there’s little else to think of.

  Leonard Cohen smiled, I believe it was wisely, and slowly nodded his head, his dark-haired head with its sculpted Roman nose and its cheeks flushed a scandalous hint of pink. I was about to ask him his thoughts on the culture of beans, his views on this subject, but first I said, surely there’s poetry in beans. And he smiled again into my brown beanie eyes and said, yes, dear lady, there’s poetry in beans, in figs, in cashew nuts, you name it, we’re rolling in poetry, it’s just a matter of being Aldous Huxley and opening the doors, peeling the eyeballs, baring the skin and this is often everything. In fact, he continued, I’m sure there’s more skin in the world than asphalt and if all the skin was laid flat, laid end to end, we’d have a new membrane with which to cover the earth, replacing ozone, replacing our dank and fumey skies. Yes, I said, baring our skin is a necessary concept because that’s what the children are doing this very minute, razor blading their emotions with the help of Aldous Huxley and blotter acid. Can’t you hear them howling? I asked, a cluster of children at the back of the house howling their heads off that the sky is falling, the sky is falling, not liking their eyeballs flayed, not liking it at all?

  Leonard waved his hand. It means nothing, he said, nothing at all. But I was impelled by the urgent something and had to leave Leonard Cohen to eat his beans alone as we, the rest of us at the table, but principally Henny and me, rushed to quell the children’s hysteria. Hysteria of the usual kind, to be sure, but raw hysteria, that being the best way to consume new emotion, new vision, which is what the children were doing. By the time I’d handed out the blankets, re-read the old stories and settled the children, I found Leonard sitting outside on a collapsible deck chair jotting in a notebook, serene Buddha that he most certainly is. (But a wee bit disinclined for all that, I thought, to get his pinkies wet, his elbows muddied.)

  Henny then said, as we rested in the sun at Leonard’s feet, Henny said, well Leonard Cohen, since we’re all liberals here, can you tell me your views on nothingness? But didn’t get to expand on his theme because Leonard got mad, got huffy and said, I never defend a thing I’ve researched. And with this utterance got up and strode out of the yard.

  So there’s another piece of the puzzle gone missing and if this keeps up we won’t have a puzzle at all, just a series of holes and spaces. You start out life with the puzzle intact like an enormous jigsaw and then one by one the pieces drop out or go missing; every time you ask a question, shake your head and admit you just don’t know, a piece of the puzzle goes missing. Every time you approach a Leonard or a Don or a Julio or a Grace and ask them to tell you why and how, it’s tits up for another piece. If all the holes and missing spaces were laid end to end, I said to Henny, if all the unanswered questions were gathered into a giant bouquet … And Henny sighed, gazing about the empty yard. Nobody here but us chickens, he said. And we left it at that, returning to the supper table and our meal of beans. Nodding our heads. Pecking at our plates of beans.

  HALLOWE’EN SO FAR AWAY

  Home and the undressing begins. Suits, dresses, overalls, masks. The workday world becoming a pile of clothing and props heaped at the living room door. It’s evening now and we can relax, sip cocktails, become who we really are.

  Some of us are seven feet tall! And the day has been a torture of smallness, folded as we are into three-piece suits. Our bodies cramped, our limbs bonsai’d into awkward shapes. What a relief to finally stretch; two full strides and we’re in the kitchen pouring wine.

  The hunchback’s relieved, as well. He’s spent the day as a cashier at Volume Discount wearing a harness so he’ll look like everyone else. But his hump is aching, his back sore from standing straight. Now he removes the binding that conceals his form, and the glass eye that hides his empty socket. Removes the platform shoe from his left leg allowing his game leg to drag free.

  There are others, too. A witch removes her teeth and blonde wig, sett
ling onto the sofa, gin and tonic in hand. What a pleasure to leave the library behind, allow her voice its wondrous range; cackling and shrieking she pulls bent fingers through dry, black hair. And executive secretaries, ward room nurses: from their backs unfold fairy wings as delicate as origami sculptures; now they can draw their curtains, hover about the light fixtures without gossip or scorn.

  Home, and even used-car salesmen are transformed, rushing to bathroom sinks and erasing workday faces to find relief: vampire pallor and bloody lips exposed. And teachers! Peeling off their teacher masks a clown face erupts; sore red noses are massaged into bulbous shapes, enormous feet spring forth from Cinderella shoes. But some of us are Cinderella, we cry, hiding our prettiness inside stiff power suits. Our days spent as businesswomen, entrepreneurs; we’ve been talking out the sides of our mouths, shouting down the opposition. Now we can don our rags, wash our floors in peace. Dreaming of rescue—the Hallowe’en Ball. Only in the sanctity of our homes, this revealing; our one public night so far away.

  Only at home. Where the Kings and Queens amongst us can tear off drab workday clothes. We’ve spent the day disguised as bureaucrats faking humility. Now we can unleash our secret majesty, anoint one another with the tissue-covered crowns we hide in our dresser drawers. We’re lighting the candles, filling the goblets, discussing over dinner our plans for the realm. How much to spend on the dependents? The children, the dog, the cleaning lady who acts like a serf? How much for the banquet, the RRSPs, the winter vacation, the ermine robe? And which bloody daytime war will next receive our royal assent?