Homunculus

by Wintner, Robert;

  The dream arrives at its place of origin, which is a yen for resolution based on the question of Vickie Werner. Did she marry or become a librarian to read the classics? Did she work 900 for Pauly? Tony considers calling the porn numbers and asking, Vickie, is that you? But wondering where she is now is another charade; she’s pushing fifty, so what are the odds that her sparkle survived the years or the brother? It doesn’t matter, none of it, because nothing holds up in comparison to what it becomes, even what you dream of, which is a future far away with mariachi on the breeze in the shade …

  “They won’t let you sleep, will they?” He sits up. The voice is weary, resigned as the slumped body under it, next bench over in a shaft of sunlight and a battered sombrero. Egrets call down from the canopy with shrill lyric to the music on the periphery. “I have some investigative skills, which might not surprise you. At any rate, I’ve assessed the situation.”

  “Mm … ngg … nuhh …” Tony groans.

  Tomàs understands. His fingers rise in contemplation from his lap to his chin. “The place was unlocked but I suspect Charles never locked it anyway. I’ve never determined how Charles got by before he got his job, but I suspect he has some money. He must keep it in an American bank or somewhere secure. He could have done a few deals or had a small trust, I don’t know. I know actors don’t make much, not the inordinate majority …”

  “That’s redundant. Possibly obscure,” Tony groans.

  “Yes, thanks. Sorry. He could have common sense for all we know, although it seems a long shot from here. But I’ll tell you what I think he did.” Tomàs spews theory, insensitive to the pain before him. It oozes from the pores as the eyes swirl with the swirling blue sky, vibrating in the treetops. Tomàs feels his clues to Charles’ whereabouts add up to prove his theory.

  Who cares? Tony Drury has fewer clues on his own whereabouts, his certain identity or direction, and his relationship to all those engaged in the current series of moments, hours, days, call it life itself, seems critically ill. He knows he could well be a goner, dead two days already and just now catching on. Tomàs drones on with indication and analysis; he rifled Charles’ stuff looking for more clues or a few stray pesos. “Once you peg the income source, you can often guess the cash flow. He can’t live like he does as a … a … what? A glorified taxi driver.” Tomàs is focused, on the elevated plane from which he can see the board, condescend to the pieces and their needs and know what moves they will make.

  Tony also focuses, wanting Tomàs gone as the sparkle you can’t bring back from a dream, gone like Charles is gone, gone as he is gone from a world gone wrong. He wants away to a private shade, inviolate peace.

  He rolls over to ease his aching back. Tomàs roils the points, contingencies and emphatic influences. He goes deep with deduction, sifting bottom funk for a shred of meaning that will nourish him through another day.

  That’s the problem, the incessant hunger leading to nothing but continuing hunger. Look at Tomàs, so intent, so pitiful. “I can’t draw conclusions yet. But!—his toothbrush is missing. We can assume that Charles brushes his teeth. I feel this assumption is safe. His teeth appear to be brushed, and his conquistador compulsion would require personal hygiene. I mean, we know what his charm is. He needs his toothbrush. I think you understand this, no offense. His hairbrush and deodorant are gone too. So we can tentatively deduce that he left with some planning and forethought. Some premeditation at the very least. Maybe it’s a ruse. Like I say, we can’t say conclusively. Not yet.”

  Tony groans. Tomàs is a good fellow taking a break in the afternoon, like Tony, but unlike Tony, Tomàs can’t do it alone. “You sound melodramatic,” Tony says. “Who cares? Who gives a rat’s ass if Charles jumped over the moon to fuck Elsie Borden or has his head on a spike or up some chick’s ass? Who cares?”

  “We can’t rule out anything. I think he’s most likely off with a woman, though I don’t know why Mohammed would go to the mountain when the mountain comes to town like it does. I think he’ll be back directly.”

  Tony rolls back, wishing for nothing but the breeze, sunlight and music. “So it’s just another Saturday?”

  “Thursday, actually. But it’s queer. I felt my clues were mushy, that is to say, less than solid, but I sensed sudden departure. I mean, his bags are under the bed. The bed is unmade. Dirty dishes, produce in the kitchen. He wouldn’t leave things out to rot. I saved what I could.”

  “What’s it been? Five days? Six?”

  “More than that. Ten days maybe. Maybe more. I don’t know what else we can do now.” Tomàs waits for approval or challenge or dialogue or a pat on the head.

  “I’m experiencing sudden departure myself,” Tony says. Maybe Tomàs catches on. He shuts up and lets the sunlight wash over the paralyzed afternoon. He looks still as a statue cast in thought, slumped like tired clay. “It’s good,” Tony says. Tomàs turns. Now he looks like Professor Peabody waiting for his boy Sherman to make another feeble guess. “It gives us something,” Tony says. “You get to check it out and tell me all about it. I get to think it over and make comments. Life could be empty without Charles disappearing.” Tomàs is not amused, but he doesn’t leave. He folds his arms and hangs his head. “Tomàs. Did anyone ever tell you, you look like Professor Peabody?” Tomàs looks troubled. Tony laughs.

  Tomàs says, “No. Nobody ever told me that.”

  “Any progress on your work?”

  “Mm. Yes. Always progress. Always. Even if I take two days for a simple turn of phrase, a flourish where it was flat, a word, a lilt, a lyric, you know, it adds up. Can you imagine how complete a thing can be, if you give it the time to achieve its potential?”

  “No. I can’t,” Tony says. “But I guess I should. I think I very nearly have. Without ever imagining I would.” A minute passes. Tomàs and Tony consider the different directions potential can take. Tony’s had enough for one day, so he helps Tomàs look in the mirror. “You know, Tomàs, perfection changes. More time will require more changes. The process is endless. Gestation, on the other hand, is a fixed time.”

  Tomàs sits up and smiles like a wooden dummy with nobody to move the head or make the voice. He nods over changing perfection as if examining it like a concept from outer space, sent to earth to sabotage his art. He grimaces. Tony cringes, because he’s done it again, gone and fucked up a beautiful day with dark clouds for Tomàs too, who only stopped by as a friend. Tony wishes Tomàs could skew the challenge, could say something incisive if not pithy, like his work schedule can’t conform to dreary Drury’s instant analogies on the creation of art, or that he’s not pregnant, just as he told Cisco he was no chicken. But he can’t defend himself, because he’s tired. “Has anyone seen your work?” Tony asks. Tomàs shakes his head. “Are you comfortable with anyone seeing it?” He shakes again. Tony matches his troubled smile, and they stare like two dummies in the shade on a balmy afternoon in the hills, regretting a life in wood.

  Tomàs finally stands, adjusts his hat, steadies his cane and says, “Hasta luego,” and shuffles off.

  Tony wants to call out, a esta noche, like a friend, like Tomàs is one of the regular crowd. Tony wants to look forward to a drink with him later. But the thought of a drink is not yet acceptable. Besides, Tomàs needs many drinks or a bludgeoning or forty thousand volts to shake him from his fatal delusion. Among the living dead, he suffers more hope than most; the Tooth Fairy lives for him and will leave a nice surprise under his pillow one of these nights. He sleeps not in peace but disturbed by a world whose spirit fails him, sleeps like los momes.

  Tony sits up and waits another hour for the players to find their positions; corpuscles and synapses seek alignment. He needs food, not solid food yet, only mushy stuff for now. An iffy theory calls for rice and beans and maybe a tortilla, just one. And maybe, slow and easy, a beer, for the antidote it can provide, and if it does its godly work, then maybe one more, for the feeling.

  VIII

  A Change of Pace


  Tony Drury fears the demon most when it says left is right, bad is good, inside out. So he fears the warmth welling inside him in the midst of pain; out of nowhere he wants to stand and be counted. This too could be the light before the dark, an ambush of deceptive hospitality—the day glitters. The Tooth Fairy is here, touching her wand to thin air, and everything is good. Well, not everything, but enough for now. Don’t press it. Pain eases. Anguish ebbs. He knows this feeling can’t last without help.

  It comes on casually on a park bench in the shade, like an old friend wandering by, one who doesn’t chatter so much but has a feeling to share. Together they stride up the hill from Benito Juarez. He leans into it, out from under the tall trees and teeming aviary, up from another dream and out for the daily milestone, first beer. He arrives, steps up, sits, drinks and arrives again at life on earth. Simple truth is that stale air and tepid beer don’t make it good to be alive, but things aren’t all that bad either. He sucks a lime wedge for its healthful benefits.

  The barman is called Pancho, because he can Oh, Ceesco to Cisco’s Oh, Pancho. Ha ha ha ha … Alejandro Pacheco Guitierez doesn’t care what you call him. He pats the thin yellow hairs left on his head, pasted down since 1960 so the few left won’t get away. He caresses them. He reads the paper with his good eye, catching up on world events, national news, local developments. His dead eye drifts while he pokes a finger up his nose, pulls out some hairs and preens them as well. Tony Drury wants to ask as drinkers will, about the why and wherefore of life. And how can a man grow more hair out his nose than on top of his head? He doesn’t ask because he knows the answer or at least Pancho’s answer: No se. He laughs, imagining Pancho’s head covered with nose hair. Pancho looks up.

  Resting the paper on his knees, he holds a nose hole open with two fingers while twirling the clippers round the rim with his other hand. Slow and easy through two passes, he feels for stubble and goes back in for the buff. He pauses to make change for a tourist. He looks around, sees nobody and asks if Tony wants a head-cheese burrito and some cold fries but backs off when Tony goes green instead of giving a smart ass answer. So he shrugs and slumps back into the news and nose hairs, leaving Tony to recuperate. Today is a humdinger, twenty lashes and salt. But from adversity comes strength and sometimes light. Kensho calls it omniscience, a knowing why without asking. Marylin calls it channeling. She would act out. Kensho would counsel stillness and receptivity. It’s all the same; accepting today in a life of days. Kensho prescribes oneness with moments such as this one and the next.

  Nobody here talks much of God, except when the bells clang on Sunday morning, and you roll over and think, Oh, God. Yet Tony Drury knows the moment and in it knows God exists, for God invented beer. God blesses us with the miracle of rebirth. God teases with another beer, but Tony knows as well the ins and outs of gluttony and the dues of sin.

  So he leaves the bar and slogs back to the hacienda he calls home but doesn’t believe it, especially today, with no lovely hostess, nothing but Kensho sitting on a plank on two bricks in the courtyard with his eyes closed. Each soul finds its way on a day like today, when funk is a thing to work up to. Maybe that’s why it seems unnatural for a man to feel as good as Tony Drury feels. The sirens fade. The flogging softens. Purgatory blurs back to the conceptual. Something is dawning. At least it feels that way. Upstairs the corridor flows with a warm breeze. Slanting sunlight draws him to the shady side, escorts him to the bedroom. He sits on the bed, looks here and there and in a minute is clipping toenails, a tedious task in any mood but productive, a certain use of time, and what a good thing to have done.

  He digs under the overhangs, works oogies out the corners, thinking of a new bar for tonight, someplace untried in awhile, since another night at home could be tragic. He feels so good he laughs. That’s scary. Hot, hungover, sweaty, unwanted, clipping toenails and pulling jams on a funky afternoon with the three amigos bearing down: youth, vigor, spirit. He knows it’s only homeostasis, deity of drunks who are born again. It pulls us from the muck with brief symptoms of health.

  He piles nails and debris neatly, since Heidi could show up any time, good mood, bad mood, and either will turn worse if she has to ask, What’s this stuff all over the bed? He scoops them up and dumps them in the toilet and takes a leak. A mosquito naps on the curtain, a big one who would sneak under the net and buzz all night in his ear and make him slap himself in the head. He leans over for a two-handed smash, careful not to piss on his foot.

  Bam. Easy—he never woke up, the mosquito. Flicking the corpse into the drink he wonders what karma this mosquito is working out, getting smashed, dumped over a pile of toenails and pissed on. Then again, what difference do toenails and piss make if you die quickly in your sleep? Maybe the mosquito is blessed, and Tony Drury is a cog in the blessed machinery. This too he knows as another wave rolls over, a dangerous one for a man in this condition. He thinks: I am in a terrific mood. Maybe he thinks the mosquito died for his sins. Hard to say, but a man can easily imagine his own hard luck reduced to a speck as he watches it spiral down and out.

  Dulled pain is a delusion; he only feels good in comparison to the living death suffered all morning, which includes most of the afternoon on the modified schedule. Then again, he definitely feels better. He sits on the bed and waits for better yet, knowing the tables can turn. They usually do. Unnerved, overheating, fearing the law of averages, he opts for free will. For what is destiny without the living willpower of the destined? Maybe this lift is a freebie. Maybe he paid in advance. Maybe nature allows this brief interlude so he can cut the crap and deal with the gift of life. Maybe he can seize an opportunity for once and make something of it. Maybe the snoot man is in, and maybe he can get a few more hours out of this feeling, and maybe then it will last forever. Sure it’s stupid, thinking drugs can change a good feeling or a bad feeling for the better. But Tony Drury does want to be happy for a long time or a short time.

  He picks up the phone to dial out, and somebody’s on the line—he beat the ring, which plays into this day of sudden knowing, nature, destiny and good feeling.

  Francis Lees is known as Whippet. She doesn’t seem to mind, but she never uses the nickname on herself. “It’s Francis Lees,” she says.

  “Who?”

  “Francis. Francis Lees.”

  “Whippet?”

  “I was hoping you would answer. I was hoping you were home. I want to … well, I want to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I hope this is a good time. Not a bad time. I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of something, you know.”

  “It’s the best of time. It’s the worst of time.”

  “Well. It’s about sex. It’s personal. Most people don’t like talking about it on the telephone, I mean, unless they’re doing it on the telephone. But I don’t mind, if you don’t mind.” She waits for him not to mind. Her voice rises in fibrillation, hinting clitoral massage.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Is Heidi there?”

  “No. I don’t know where she is. Riding, maybe.”

  “That’s okay. I want to talk to you. I need a favor.”

  Sexual? Whippet? And me? “Go on.”

  “Well it’s hard to explain. But it’s not. I think … I think I’ve reached an impasse. I think we’re about the same age, and I have a feeling about you. It’s not necessarily a good feeling. But it’s not a bad feeling, either. That’s the important thing. I think you understand things. I know you find me sexually attractive.”

  Same age? Sexually attractive? She tested his compassion. She’s at least older than he is, and she isn’t called Whippet for nothing. Famous for her size, miniature, her pale grays and uncertain flesh tones fit her mousy stature like the gift of camouflage in nature. Her clothing matches. Tony told her once that she looked good, like she’d gained some weight in the neck area and on the elbows. She smiled and sai
d thank you. She looks like a recovering anorexic with regular relapse; whatever feminine curvature she reclaims is soon lost. She blankets herself in sweaters, jackets and jodhpurs in all seasons. Bony haunches suspend a ghostly ass in some seasons. In good times her ribs flesh out with marginal swelling on her chest. Her neck can lose its creases, and by lightening the tint of her rodent hairdo, she looks nearly healthy.

  “I’m looking better than ever,” she says. She pauses to catch her breath, and so he can imagine her looks.

  “You sound better,” he says.

  “I’ve been on a high-calorie diet and a work-out program. I gained twelve pounds.”

  “Twelve pounds! Boy. Where did you gain it?”

  “Oh, you,” she laughs. “Listen. I could really like you. I think I could fall in love with you.”

  Wha?

  “I don’t want to come between you and Heidi.” Sure thing. “I honestly do not want a romance right now. That’s why I wanted to talk on the telephone. You know how it is in person, seeing each other’s eyes, touching and everything. I don’t want that.” She pauses again. He senses her difficulty, straining past second digits.

  “What do you want, Whippet?”

  “This is embarrassing. But I want to know if you’d like to have sex with me. I mean now. Before dark. I know it’s sudden. I want it to be our secret. Men can handle that easier than women can. You know, sex right now, just stick it in there. And I know you can handle it. I shouldn’t like you, but I do. I think you’re the only man in town who could handle something like this on my terms, you know, with discretion. I think you’re the only man I could handle. I mean, bear. I mean, you know.”

  Maybe he’s supposed to say sure, come on over, I’ll do you up. Or maybe she’s braced for rejection, what she knows about men. Maybe he can be honest without being cruel. But how can a man who’s always horny gently reject a woman so homely, if she knows? Stuck between tact and compassion, he wants to help her through her trouble without adding to his own. And it is trouble, small trouble perhaps, but no smaller than the acorn Lao Tzu attributed to the mightiest oaks and greatest troubles. He feels trouble surely as knowing the oak grows mightily and the mosquito got flushed. “What time is it?”