White Mythology

by WD Clarke

  —Babyfresh, he said to the previously-empty hallway, just as the door upon which he’d knocked was jerked open, about 4 inches or so. A nose and a mouth poked through the crack.

  —Huh? the nose&mouth said.

  —Babyfresh, Dr. Ed repeated reflexively, not quite catching himself here, but still comprehending the gravity of the mistake he’d just made, and trying desperately to not let his nose distort the sound of his words.

  —Sorry, Pal, the nose&mouth said, wrong password, wrong place. The nose&mouth backed away from the opening like a tortoise retreating into its shell, and made to close the door.

  —No, baid, please, I didn’t beally mean id, I, as the bassword I mean….

  This intrigued the nose&mouth, and brought it back out of its shell. —Oh?

  —No, I was jusd dalking to myself, oud loud I, I mean I was beflecting, bondering, aboud dhe smell in dhe hallway.

  —Ahhh.

  A pause.

  —There’s a smell? said the nose&mouth.

  —Yes, said Dr. Ed.

  —Bad smell izzit?

  —Yes.

  —Go on.

  —Well it’s seberal bad smells, actually, bud I was ‘dhinking’ aboud dhe air freshener….

  —That’s freshening the place up.

  —Yes.

  —Hence your usage of the term ‘babyfresh’.

  —Yes, um.

  —We don’t either approve or condone such … vulgar language here, sir.

  —I realize dhad, Dr. Ed lied, wondering what the hell was going on here.

  —But context is everything, is it not, sir?

  —Uh, I subboze zo.

  —And just how do you have cognizance of this alleged ‘babyfresh’, sir?

  —Um, I.

  —If I may be so bold as to ask.

  —Iz dhis, said Dr. Ed, bill dhis … inderbiew … ged me indo dhis … club?

  —One cannot say, sir, one can just never tell, can one? It all—why it all depends.

  —Debends on what?

  —One is not at liberty to discuss that with you, sir. Now if you would be so kind….

  —Whad?

  —The question, sir.

  —Oh. ‘Babyfresh’ is a smell, I mean a scend, a commercial not a consumber broduck. Dhey use id ad dhe car bash.

  —Which car wash?

  —The ‘Soff Cloff’ one. And … you know … they sbray id in, afder dhe car’s clean.

  —Go on.

  —Id’s one of seberal choices.

  —They just spray it in.

  —Yes, widh a gun.

  —A gun!

  —You know, a sbraygun, addached do a long hose.

  —How long?

  —Whad? Dhis is absurd, how in dhe hell would I know? Lissen, bal.

  —This is all part of the … process, sir, of gaining entrance, I assure you. Please continue: how long is the hose?

  —Jebus, I don’d know. Kide long.

  —Oh dear oh dear.

  —What?

  —Nothing, nothing. Now, about you, you like this, this ‘babyfresh’?

  —You kibbing? Id’s dhe wife, she uses id ad home.

  —I see. ‘The’, ahem, ‘Wife’.

  —Yes.

  —But sir, you have perjured yourself. You have uttered 2 entirely contradictory statements. First, you say it is a commercial grade product, then….

  —No, you don’d umbersdand, she doesn’d ged id from dhe sdore, she buys id off of dhe car wash beoble, im bulk.

  —In bulk?

  —Yes.

  —Good.

  —Good? Can I come im mnow?

  —I’m sorry. I have to go, I’m being … summoned … from within.

  —Go? Can’d I come mnin?

  —In, oh … Sir, you’ll have to forgive me, you’ll have to ask to speak to the door-man. And I—I am not he.

  —Dhen whad are you?

  —Oh, nobody, ‘specially.

  —Bud.

  Suddenly, Dr. Ed had the distinct ‘feeling’ that he had seen this nose and that mouth before, but he could not place either of them.

  —Listen, pal, the voice then said, its tone suddenly shifting from ‘noblesse oblige’ to ‘You Talkin’ To Me?’ Here’s how it’s gonna be: you start from scratch. Knock as loud as fuck or buddy won’t hear you. Now sai-yo-fuckin’-nara. Ok?

  The door slammed shut. Dr. Ed then waited a few seconds and then knocked, as he had been told. When it eventually re-opened, Dr. Ed wasted no time in getting to the point, and tried ­even harder to talk normally:

  —I’m here to see a man about a dog, he said with mechanical precision to a gormless-looking, gold-on-purple rugby-shirted lug who wore a gold ‘95’ leather engineering faculty jacket that had been Rorshached with purple dye. The lad also sported a purple face (the sure-as-shooting sign that he had been unable to relinquish the manifold splendours of ‘Frosh’ or initiation week) and a purple Mohawk haircut.

  —What’s your quest? the youth queried with all-too-real gravitas.

  —The hair of the dog that bit me, said Dr. Ed, who ‘thought’: so far, so good, talking almost unlike a lunatic, just what in the hell do I ‘think’ I’m doing here?

  —Who’s the biggest dick, Tracy?

  —Wilt the Stilt Chamberlain, Fuck.

  —How many in the bag?

  Christ, Dr. Ed ‘thought’. As if.

  —20,000, he said.

  —Do the Math, said the gorilla.

  —800 a year for 25 years….

  —25 glorious years, said the apprentice engineer.

  —Almost 3 women…, said Dr. Ed.

  —Cunts.

  This came academically, and without rancour. Dr. Ed stood corrected. —Er, yes, c-cunts … a day.

  —Un-fuckin-believable, said this most laddish of lads.

  —Impossible, said Dr. Ed, unable to stick to the script.

  —Believe it, old man. ‘S doable, ab-so-fuckin-lutely. Then he paused for a moment and stared at Dr. Ed impatiently with a look that said ‘Well?’

  —Um, how’s the weather up there? said Dr. Ed.

  —Friggin’ cold, old man. You know how cold?

  Dr. Ed cleared his throat, and proceeded to recite, like a truculent, coerced schoolboy with his rhythmically inept, memorized Shakespeare:

  As cold as a frog on an ice-bound pool,

  As cold as the end of an Eskimo’s tool,

  As cold as a polar bear’s frozen shit,

  As cold as a witch’s wrinkled tit…. (& etc.)

  The door swung open wide to receive him. With Kantian aesthetic disinterestedness, with the cool, clinical, impersonal rationality that every medical and applied science student gets vaccinated with, the purpled engineer said:

  —Congrat-u-fuckin’-lations.

  —Fuck you very mush, said Dr. Ed automatically, and slipping finally, into broken nose speak.

  He was thence propelled toward the after-hours club’s copious stores of alcohol, along the venturi effect of a sigh.

  24

  Holy Shit

  Holy Shit, the boy said. But this was another boy, unpurpled, sporting not a Mohawk but the complete depilatory ‘do’ known as the cue-ball, and whose rugby shirt was coloured in reversi, purple-on-gold and partially hidden under a set of purple coveralls with ‘94’ and ‘RugRat’ painted in gold on the back. That’s some weird dream, he said.

  Dr. Ed said nothing, and gulped down the last of the beer. While he was off looking for a urinal the beer had appeared out of nowhere, a squadron of 6-ounce glasses, 24 of them, making, what? 144 ounces, which was 8 pints, or 4 quarts, or a full, Imperial Gallon of ale between them. And now it was gone.

  —What was this? he said, eventually, tipping his empty glass back and forth. He heard himself speak in his normal voice again now, or more-or-less, which meant that the drugs must be wearing off just as the alcohol was coming on, right?

  —‘Wisconsin’s Best’. Worst is more like it, though. It’s cost-ef
fective, but it’s skunkspiss, really.

  —You only rent it, anyhow, said Dr. Ed, surprising himself by reaching back to a standard, jocular cliché he’d been taught years ago, and to which, including just now, he’d never once considered giving utterance.

  —You said it, Man, said the boy, who then proffered his right hand in the air for a de rigueur ‘high five’. You wait right here, and I’ll go lease us a few more litres.

  Dr. Ed had struck up a conversation with him a ½ an hour, or 2 bottles of Molson Stock Ale (what his father used to drink, probably still drank, back on the Island) into a solitary sojourn at the bar. That was an hour-and-a-½ ago, and he had been flanked by empty barstools, the jovially bellicose throng instinctively sensing that the occluded cumulo-nimbus formation above his comparatively ancient head portended stormy weather, and had duly wide-berthed him.

  But then the boy, who introduced himself as Doug and who had his own reasons for seeking idiosyncratic company that evening, sat down on the stool to his immediate left, and was in no time telling Dr. Ed his own sorry little tale of woe: his girlfriend, of 4+ years running—since their senior year of high school, Mary was her name, a nursing student of course—had just ‘dumped’ him, that very evening. Worse, she had been 2-timing him with some cadet from the Royal Military College—since, it was still hard for him to believe, the fucking second week of term.

  They’d even gotten engaged, she and the cadet—Mary had sent Doug a note—and were to be married the following May.

  —A union of souls? Dr. Ed asked rhetorically.

  —A ‘Scarlet Wedding’ more like.

  —For a scarlet woman, Dr. Ed added.

  Doug laughed ruefully.

  —But what’s a ‘Scarlet Wedding’? asked Dr. Ed.

  —It’s a MilCol thing, apparently, said Doug. Getting married before graduation so they can do it in their red uniforms, the historical ones that make them look like Dudley Do-Right—or bell-boys. I guess if they waited ’til after grad, when they’re actually in the forces instead of jus’ pretendin’, they’d have to wear the standard, even uglier, modern military get-ups. ‘Spoils the Picture’, he added, his hands drawing the inverted commas in the air.

  —Jesus, said Dr. Ed.

  —Jesus doesn’t have a whole helluva lot to do with it, said Doug.

  —Never did, son, never did.

  —Maybe. But maybe not.

  —You religious? asked Dr. Ed.

  —Not really. I was raised Lutheran, but I guess I’m a sceptic now. And you?

  —I don’t really ‘think’ about it.

  —Why not?

  —It’s too long a story to get into, said Dr. Ed, surprised but not alarmed or offended by Doug’s asking, with the ingenuousness of youth, questions such as this, questions of a most personal nature. It’s just a long, boring story, he repeated.

  —I’ve got nowhere to go, ’specially, said Doug. Shoot.

  —Um, I … Ok, sure, why the hell not.

  —Hey, let’s grab that table, and another tray?

  —Tray?

  —Of beer. In front of you, what you’ve been drinking?

  But the actual tray was leaning against the table leg. Doug picked it up and waved it in the air. —That’s how it works here. Cheapest way to consume mass quantities.

  And so they did. But before discussing Dr. Ed’s ancient history, and the recent, recurrent dream that kept returning him to that rediscovered country, Dr. Ed wanted Doug to tell him something.

  —Uh, Doug, he said, shouldn’t you be more, I don’t know, bitter, or angry, all things considered? You don’t seem all that….

  —That’s what my housemates say. They’ve got this whole ‘guys’ list of things that have to be done in these kind of situations.

  —Such as?

  —Oh, I dunno, cut off his prick, for starters. Just meathead bullshit really, like having a blanket party?

  —Which is… ?

  —The bunch of us throwing a sheet over the bastard’s head and beating the crap out of him.

  —Charming, but effective.

  —Yeah, tell me about it. Anyway, yeah, ’course I’m pissed, but it’s more than just that, you know?

  —You’re talking of sadness, loss, Dr. Ed offered automatically, if somewhat uncomfortably.

  —Stuff like that, yeah, stuff you just don’t talk about.

  —But you’re talking about it. Dr. Ed raised a glass to him.

  —I’m drunk, said Doug, clinking glasses. And getting drunkerer, and so are you.

  —Getting there, said Dr. Ed. But still, even drunk, you’re not like the rest of these….

  —Knobs? I sure as hell am, Ed, most of the time. Tonight’s different, though. Tonight’s—

  He looked shyly, yet piercingly, into Dr. Ed’s eyes. There’s a there there, Dr. Ed thought, a something which spoke to, which broke, which smashed its way past, if that could possibly be possible, what was left of his….

  —Singalong! Two minutes to Singalong! an amplified voice boomed over a potent p.a. system.

  —Singalong? asked Dr. Ed.

  —Yeah, ‘Thursday Night Singalong’ as they call it, said Doug. They do it every week, though it’s not really, usually anyway, an actual sing-along. More of a group, um, recital I guess.

  —I don’t follow, said Dr. Ed.

  —Well the hosts, they’re called Fat&Pill, but their real names are Pat and Phil, they play, you know, a classic sketch or routine or whatever on the p.a., and everyone joins in.

  —You mean comedy?

  —Usually. Songs, too, supposedly funny ones, and, well, it’s ok. Funny if you’re drunk I guess.

  —Oh.

  —Usually it’s things like Monty Python bits, or parts of the Animal House movie, Second City—the usual.

  —And tonight?

  —Tonight? They call it ‘The Cablenet Swearing Guy’. Have you heard it before?

  —No.

  —It’s been making the rounds for a couple of years. Some people call it ‘Angry Cable Customer’.

  —What is it?

  —It’s taken from the K-town Cablenet company answering machine, apparently. This guy’s bummed about his service getting called off and keeps calling the machine back, swearing more&more and louder&faster each time.

  —Huh. And this is true, I mean, it’s not made up?

  —Seems it’s legit, but you be the judge. Here, they’re coming on.

  Two young men, both in purple clown’s wigs and purple coveralls identical to Doug’s, came to the small raised stage at the front of the room, each grabbing a microphone. One of them, Dr. Ed instantly realized, had the same nose and mouth that had mocked him earlier, at the door. And then he realized who they were: the two young men that morning, on the bus, the pair who had been boorishly, heedlessly singing at the top of their lungs.

  —I’m Fat, said the one.

  —And I’m Pill, said the other.

  —And you’re… , they both said simultaneously, to the crowd.

  —Biggus Dickus! the crowd roared in unison.

  —I’ve got a wery gweat fwiend in Wome named Biggus Dickus, said Fat, or Pill, in an aside to his counterpart.

  —And why are we here tonight, Fat?

  —To get… , said Fat.

  —Screwed, blued and tattooed! went the audience.

  —Later! the pair said together. First, though, we’se gonna….

  —Singalong! the crowd affirmed.

  —Course we are! said, apparently, Fat.

  —Hey, you know what, Fat, said Pill, suddenly ‘serious’.

  —What, Pill?

  —I just called, to say, I love you, Pill sang.

  —Oh?

  —I just called, to say howww, much I, caaaarred.

  —Really?!

  —Yes I just called, to sayyy, I luhh—uhh—uhhvve yoo­—oo—ouu….

  —Wow.

  —And I mean it, from the bott—tomm of my, harr—arr—arrt.

  —Huh?
Dr. Ed said to Doug.

  —Stevie Wonder song, said Doug.

  —Oh, said Dr. Ed.

  —Ohhhh yes I do, said Pill.

  —How sweet, said Fat.

  —In fact, said Pill, now much more matter-of-factly, and pointing his index finger square in the middle of Fat’s fat forehead, his thumb pointing upwards into the air. In fact, I’ve just sent you a lovely, loving love letter.

  —Love letter! yelled a large-ish proportion of the audience.

  —And you know what a love letter is? Pill asked, with menace in his voice.

  —It’s a bullet from a gun! the entire audience roared.

  —Blue Velvet, weird cult film, Doug referenced before Dr. Ed could express his all-too-real confusion.

  —Daddy Wants To Fuck! Pill screeched, pretending now to hyperventilate through an oxygen mask.

  —And that’s a good point, said Fat, stepping smartly forward now and adopting a Queen’s English accent and a hyper-rational manner. An ad-mir-able concep-tion, which oft was thought, and ne’er so well express’d, and which, conveniently enough, segg-uh-ways most han-dee-lee into tonight’s (and changing his voice into that of the echoing boom of a hockey arena announcer) Fee-churrrrr Prez-ennn-tayyyyyyyy-shunn!!

  —It’s back by popular demand! said Pill in an aw-shucks/gee-wizz/Gomer Pyle voice.

  —Actually, it’s snot, Pill (very much mock-serious and quietly shifty now). You just decided it was, all by your lonesome, as if, as if, as if you, voted yourself king or something!

  —You don’t vote for kings! went the audience.

  —I thought we were an autonomous collective, Pill said.

  —An anarcho-syndicalist commune, said Fat.

  —Whatever, said Pill.

  A look of hyperbolic shock and hurt came over Fat’s fat face. —I really am surprised at you, Pill, he said in a highly effeminate voice, his arms now crossed in front of his chest and his general posture suggesting the attitude of a lover spurned. Not only do you mock my loony left-wing politics in a most cavalier fashion, you also take me, moi, for granted. Why….

  —Can I have a hug? Pill suddenly interrupted.

  —Not in front of the children.