The OK End of Funny Town

by Mark Polanzak

  An Exact Thing finally left the bestseller lists in the winter. Galley copies, early printings containing typos, European versions with varied covers, translations with newly intoned lines, review copies with missing page numbers, these sprouted up for sale by Christmas. Kathy and I exchanged coveted United States First Editions. We retreated to separate rooms, rereading before New Year’s. The book remained novel, and I was delighted to find that in the first edition, my least favorite character, Jaden, an aspiring actress who seduced Buck and was the ruin of his life, was no longer a part of the story, and that Buck was not an old alcoholic but now a gifted nineteen-year-old cellist, studying in Vienna and falling for a prostitute.

  Steven and Lydia had a party at the turn of the decade. Kathy and I spotted three iterations of the novel’s dust jacket: one lying next to the television, one on the kitchen counter, and one half concealed under sheets in the guest bed. We asked, because we had to ask now, how many times had they read it? We admitted to repeat offenses, and to reading it in private, occasionally in secret, embarrassed to be discovered with An Exact Thing yet again by our spouse. No number of reads would have shocked. What was shocking was that Steven and Lydia had also kept their numerous reads secret. We crept back into the discussion again, the debate that had made us all so uneasy, back in the fall. Who belongs together?

  Kathy, hardened by months of feeling foolish for her analysis of the work, her inability to read subtext and subtlety, hesitated but soon offered penetrating questions. I, now open to more and more interpretations, offered that I wasn’t sure anymore if Ms. Taylor was the one about to pen the letter in the end. As far as I knew, now, Ms. Taylor wasn’t even the protagonist. Her scenes had diminished over time, and in my last read I encountered her in only one sequence, as the flirtatious secretary of Mr. Janz, whose storyline had finally appeared to me in my third read and now seemed much more central than Buck, whose character had vanished in my eighth read. It was Florence in the end, the woman left at the altar. She had someone else’s blood on her. It wasn’t her at all, probably. It seemed possible to me. It seemed almost obvious at this point.

  Lydia asked: “Who is Florence?”

  As the coincidence of bewilderment registered with the group, I, now holier-than-no-one, shot Steven a raised eyebrow, not Lydia. I searched for his embarrassment. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring up to the posts and beams, agape. He shouted: “How many times do we have to do this?”

  I wasn’t sure if Steven was angry with me for bringing up the book, if he was bored with the subject, or if he was furious with his wife for her carelessness. I apologized, but Lydia waved me off.

  “We’ve had this fight a million times,” she said and patted my shoulder. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I’m sorry. What fight? About the book?”

  Steven growled and threw his champagne flute into the fireplace. He brushed by me, crunching the glass shards on his march to the kitchen for, presumably, something stronger.

  Lydia stumbled into the dark bedroom. Then Steven emerged from the bedroom with a dustpan and set to sweeping up the mess. Lydia fluttered into existence in the kitchen entry, clutching a tumbler of amber liquor and shaking her head.

  Kathy and I went home that night and looked at each other, wide-eyed, shocked that the debate over the meaning of a book could crack open a chasm between two intelligent, reasonable people, a couple that had been together for years, whom we looked up to. Great novels should create fans, theses, courses, and literary heirs, not separation. Great novels inspired the passion of those first conversations, parties, amusing and enlightening debates. Great novels did not divide people. I didn’t know how An Exact Thing could possibly transform from a beautiful, tantalizing, endlessly intriguing topic to a source of pain and jealousy, to a blade. Kathy and I were on the same page. So, I asked Kathy—after not having done so since defending her ridiculous question that first night—what she thought of the book. Now that she had been with An Exact Thing for so long, what were her feelings? Who belonged together? We were picking up blankets and folding them, washing dishes, turning on and off the faucet, putting glasses in the cupboard, unbuttoning and buttoning.

  “I’m afraid,” she told me.

  I laughed. “You don’t need to be afraid with me,” I assured her, because we could tell each other anything, because Steven and Lydia were foolish for taking something made for entertainment so seriously, were foolish for allowing a stranger’s work to invade their relationship. If something should enter our relationship from outside, if it was this story, however seductive, it should not ultimately matter. We made this relationship together. A story could not be more powerful than this bond. I would understand.

  “Do you believe yourself?” my Kathy asked. “Do you?”

  With hope that we both felt the same for An Exact Thing, but an irresistible and dangerous curiosity to discover that we did not, I said, “I do.”

  TEST

  Please get comfortable. Sit at your kitchen table, or in your favorite recliner with a surface on which to write. Once you’ve begun this test, do not get up, change seats, or take a break for any reason, unless the test asks. So, please, use the bathroom now, grab a glass of water, stretch, because this is going to take a while. When you are finished with this test, please place the answer sheet (and any other papers used for longer written answers) in the enclosed return envelope and mail it back to me. Do not use a pencil. No erasing. You must be absolutely alone throughout the test. If your phone should ring, do not answer. In fact, power down your phone now. If your doorbell should buzz, just forget about it. If it’s important, they’ll come back, or they’ll leave a note if they are the note-leaving type. If you do not know the answer to a question, just try your best. Do not leave answer spaces blank. Turn all clocks face to wall or unplug them. And don’t forget the clocks that may appear on your microwave, coffee maker, radio, or wrist. Lastly, try to enjoy yourself.

  SECTION I

  1. Come here often?

  No. Well, yes. I come here all the time, but I live here. This is my apartment. I come back here quite often, to be accurate. Sometimes, though, I am here without coming here. It’s just that I never left. So, like, yes and no?

  2. What are you wearing?

  My painting jeans and a red and black flannel. Of course, I’m wearing boxers, too, but …

  3. What do you do? Funny to ask that, but that’s what we say now—not who are you, or what are your interests, or how do you like to spend your time, or what are you good at, but what do you do?—like your occupation is who you are. At least, at first.

  I am a house painter. But that’s my day job. Really, I am an artist. Actually, I’ve just gotten used to saying that. Artist. But that is my passion—it is what I “do,” but during the week, the nine-to-five, I’m painting houses, not canvases.

  4. Interesting. Do you find that line of work satisfying?

  Which one? House painting pays the bills. It’s not “satisfying,” but everyone’s got to work. Finishing a canvas, though: that’s satisfying. When I have an idea and then I complete it, when I’ve reached a stopping point … that’s when I can breathe, have a beer, and feel good. You know, I never feel alone when I’m working on a piece. I am having a dialogue with someone. And that someone is me. The best conversation I could have!

  5. Are you seeing anyone?

  Not at the moment. I just moved to town about two months ago, left behind a great love. But I am an artist. I asked myself what was really important in life and came up with the answer: right now, my art is important. People, I can take or leave. But I need to hone my skills, really do some great experimenting, great painting at this point. So, no. Sorry. Probably more than you were looking for.

  6. What is the difference between a duck?

  Seems like there’s more to that one. A typo? If not, I’ve heard: the higher the fewer. That’s a weird one! Maybe that’s a perfect question. It screws with your perception. What is a q
uestion? You make me ask, “and what?” The difference between this “and what,” “and what,” and what?

  7. Just a question I like to ask. I feel there are some questions, besides name?, age?, hobby?, that tell more about someone. Like “Would you rather have a hand made of chocolate that would regenerate, or the ability to breathe underwater?”

  You’re asking, essentially, would I like to be a pariah for the rest of my days, or have the ability to see worlds that no one else could see, the ability to enlighten myself, to see places that would make me cry, make me think, broaden me more than anyone could be broadened? I’ll take the breathing underwater. And if you could supply some waterproof canvas and paint—look out!

  8. I don’t like chocolate that much, but it’s just the food I think some people would enjoy. I would breathe underwater. Imagine the dates you could have! If you and I could both breathe underwater … The kisses we could have! Sorry. Sorry. That was rushed. Do you like music?

  Who doesn’t? I have tickets to see a show this weekend. I have two, but I can’t find anyone to go with. Still out there, you know?

  9. Me, too.

  What?

  10. So, tell me about your last girlfriend.

  That’s a little awkward. Like you’re not supposed to talk about politics, religion, ex’s, right? Her name is Anna. Or should I say was Anna. She’s not around anymore. Trust me. I am glad to be out of that one. As I said earlier: got to concentrate on my passion now. Sins of the flesh can wait. But I am a red-blooded, American man. I need my action. Sorry. That was tasteless, something I would have erased if I could erase the things I think, say, do, write, here. She does marketing for a tech company. She’s dedicated to her work, but I know she must have aspirations beyond that work that she doesn’t find time to pursue. I can’t respect that. A totally content person, who doesn’t see that she’s a cog in the wheel of crap, you know? And I couldn’t stick around and let her dreamless life infect my hopes, make me think of my dreams as silly or something. We met in high school but didn’t start dating until we were both out of college. Best friends for years and years. I remember our first kiss … But I don’t want to do that … remember all that with … you, you know? The bottom line is that it’s over. Some people make a choice to live a normal life. A life filled with normal love. Others choose to be an artist. It’s a sacrifice, but I know I have to make it.

  11. Come on. I’ll tell you …

  Wait. What?

  12. My ex was the only person I ever dated—high school sweethearts, although we saw different people at times. I never slept with anyone else. We have been over now for two years, and I haven’t found anyone I really liked since. Since … well.

  Jeez. Only one boyfriend, eh? That’s serious. So, we have something in common. Lost love. Well, lost love sounds so dramatic. But that’s nice to hear. That I’m not the only one.

  13. This has been fun so far. Why don’t we get back together after a fiveminute break?

  Oh, sure. Yeah, I need to do … something anyways. See you later.

  SECTION II

  14. So, what have you been up to?

  I gessoed a canvas. I have been doing a lot of fantasy pictures, abstract things, but now I want to start still lifes again, possibly portraits. I could paint your perfect straight lines. Evoke the stark contrasts of black on white. Your 8 1/2″ × 11″ figure.

  15. Are you still wearing that?

  Yeah. So? You want me to change?

  16. Forget about it. Remember all that stuff you told me about your ex? Do you still think of her?

  No. I’ve already gone over this. I’m done with that. I’m here now. With my work, with this new life. With this test, this you. I’m not looking for anything. I had my love and all that. Now, I am onto something important.

  17. You’re sure?

  I’m not doing this again. I refuse to go over this again with you.

  18. What is the true identity of a mirror?

  There’s my girl! You know, that’s an awesome question. Only you would ask that. You make me think, and think about my own work. You can never look at a mirror without seeing what it is reflecting, right? Then, I guess you can never see what a mirror truly looks like. If you built an airplane out of mirrors, would it be invisible in the sky, only reflecting the blue sky around it? They say that the artist’s intention has little to do with the meaning of the piece. So, can you ever see the true identity of a piece of art? Of an artist? Of me? Good question.

  19. One or two?

  Two. Now. Usually it’s one. But today it’s two for me.

  20. My sister’s still dating this asshole. He hit her again. I keep telling her to get out of there, but she says she loves him. What should I do?

  She has to get out of there. At any cost. Call the police on him, the next time you hear about this. That’s awful. Inexcusable.

  21. You’re a good man. I’m happy with you. Do you like me?

  It’s nice to have something to do for once. All my friends are back home. I have to stop calling it “home.” This is my home now. I came out here to see if I could do it without anyone else. I mean, an artist has to have his solitude, has to be alone. I want to see if I succeed. Without Anna, I am working more, concentrating on my dreams. But, I have to admit, I get a little lonely. But that’s the pain that the artist must interrogate. The other night, I wrote her a letter. I tore it up in the morning. A moment of weakness. She told me that she wouldn’t try to contact me. She would give me space. Time, whatever. I am happy now. About you. Yes. I like you. I like the company. I like the challenge. But I’m not looking for anything. I have to be up front with you.

  22. Will you take me into your bedroom?

  … Okay. I’m going to grab a drink first.

  SECTION III

  23. Have you heard that you sleep with whatever you hang over your bed, that you are figuratively getting into bed with the pictures on your wall above your bed?

  Yeah, I think I’ve heard that. Psychobabble bullshit. I’m my own man.

  24. Who is that?

  The painting? That’s from before I left. It’s Anna.

  25. You must really be attached to it.

  It’s just a good painting, I think. A good likeness.

  26. What would you say if I said, I love you?

  I’m glad I got a drink. “That’s a roundabout way to say something like that” is the first thing I would say/did just say. But then, I would be flattered. I am having fun with this. I wouldn’t say it back right now, if that’s what you’re getting at. But do I need to say it, yet? If I do, if I admit that I’ve gotten attached, that I’ve found something out here, then it’s just going to get messy. I just left someone.

  27. Can I stay here tonight?

  Do you mean on the couch or in …

  SECTION IV

  28. What do you like to do for breakfast?

  It’s all learned behavior. What I would like to do is fry two sunny-side up eggs. Toast shooting out of the toaster, landing on my plate. Jams in a rainbow burst of colors. I want orange juice squirting out of the faucet, coffee mug warm on my hands, steam rising, making swirls of cream, painting letters in the air: LOVELY MORNING. Bacon crackling on the stove, sending fat and grease fireworks over the rooster-shaped kitchen timer. Champagne corks darting around the room, off the fridge, where I have a note tacked with a Monet magnet that reads: TO DO: Smile, smile, smile. But, lately I have been sucking down cigarettes and drinking instant coffee while staring at my piece of shit paintings.

  29. Do you think you know me? You’ve never asked me anything about myself.

  I know that I like you. I know that it feels good to have someone interested in me. I know that I haven’t felt like this in some time. I know that you have breathed some sort of life back into me—a life I didn’t know I was missing. I know that before you started asking me things, I wasn’t really thinking. I know that you make me like myself. And I haven’t had a bad thought about you.

  30. Do you
know that I have dreams? Do you know that I want more than just a good time? Do you know that I have feelings, too? Do you know that this isn’t a one-way street? Do you know that I want someone to have an interest in me beyond me helping them? Do you know how many times I have started these things, and I become someone’s mother, helper, whore? Do you know that maybe I need life breathed into me? Do you know that I’m messy inside and that I am not always a funny, quirky questionnaire? That I can be mean? Do you know me at all?

  I am still here, waiting. I am still here with you. Isn’t that enough? Why must I express a great interest, a great love? I am here, and, if I didn’t care, I would have put you and this pen away by now. You know that I came here to escape just this type of situation. I can’t get attached. I need to do my work. Why do we have to label things all the time? Can’t we just have fun? I can’t get that serious. I can’t. I have a goal. And that goal doesn’t involve another messy relationship.

  31. Why did you pick me up? Back then, when I first asked you about yourself? Why did you keep leading me on?

  Here’s an example: Rasputin. He used to pick up prostitutes and sleep next them, to see if he could deny his bodily urges. He tried to do something, dare himself to try something that all his being was going against. I always do that. I tell myself what exactly I’m going to do. Like here. I am here to do work. To not get hung up and I am testing myself. I do like you. I do. But I’m just going to fuck up, either with my work or with you. It’s all happening again. I’m failing.

  32. I know. I know. I’m sorry. I overreacted. Do you want to place a coffee mug on me, leave a dark ring at my edge?

  No. Of course not. It’s just getting to me. I haven’t painted in so long now. I’ve been spending so much time with you. I’m getting stressed that I’m falling for you. If that’s true, then I have to break this off. But, no, baby. I don’t want to make a ring of coffee on your edges. Here, let me rub out the folds in your back.