Perhaps the women never really did it at all, it is only a lie spread and carefully maintained by some mysterious power structure. It is as likely as my being the only one.
The thought does not console me.
*
Spring has exploded: the air is overpoweringly sweet. Birds sing, worms turn, leaves unroll … I feel a mysterious kinship with the earth, and cautious of my cargo I take to our garden.
Sitting in the class together, my wife and I attract strange glances, but everyone is too polite to talk to us. I don’t mind. I would say, come, do you believe in breast-feeding. But beneath their distance I know I frighten them, so we do not press for company. One. two. one. two. we all chant together. Breathe. Breathe. Relax.
You have given your fellow men another tool for oppressing us. an angry woman writes. Now you don’t need us at all. Uncertain, I ponder this. But: You are a brave man. another letter says, to share our burden with us. I wish you well.
I answer as many of these letters as I am able; their encouragement strengthens me. The others, the distressed mudslingers, I skim for originality and then feed to the trash.
Business is booming, I can report. Vicarious notoriety has brought flush times to the law firm. Multi-digit offers from institutions and periodicals cover our bulletin board. We contemplate the temptation, but steadfastly refuse to-say, “Come on over.”
I drink milk, take vitamins. Obviously I have not been to work in weeks; my condition is distracting when not downright encumbering, and I feel as if I am in front of the cameras instead of behind them. Well, that’s what you get for not taking precautions. I wonder if she would have married me, had we been single when it happened.
Our parents, who have always pestered us to have children, do not appear satisfied by the recent development. There’s no pleasing some people.
*
The companies are beginning to get obnoxious again; they view me as a viable sales gimmick. Entire new markets! Dolls! Sweatshirts! Advice to unwed fathers! Bah!
The only consolation I have is that Pravda has not yet announced the previously unpublicized case of a Russian man who gave birth to a healthy seven-pound boy—or maybe twins—back in 1962.
Well, we had to give in; Blue Cross would not spring for my obstetric expenses. We expect to win the lawsuit, but in the meantime the clinic’s offer was our only hope of financial nonruin. We intend to get those hard-fisted bastards, however. Deny childbirth coverage on account of my sex, will they? I will relish watching them squirm in court. Let’s hear it for the Equal Rights Amendment, brothers!
Buying a suitable nursing brassiere was quite an adventure.
It is a triumph worth crowing over. Single-handedly, I have thrown an entire medical research team into panic. Now that they’ve got me, they don’t know what to do with me. Hi-ho, they’re so confused! They’d love to be able to say, there’s been a mistake, it’s only a strange growth, but not after the X rays.
Actually, it began as a wart on my ass.
My art is suffering, I admit, but I realize I am not the first whose baby preempted a career.
When the child is two months old, I intend to go back to work full-time, if at all possible. Meanwhile, I am catching up on my reading.
I have accepted an invitation to speak before the upcoming Gay Rights Conference. My topic (by request): Male Mothers: A Viable Gay Alternative to Adoption.
Though uncertain how I feel about all this, I was too flattered to refuse.
The day has come. Swollen-bellied they cart me away, accompanied by a certain red-haired lawyer. The connection between my vast abdomen and a son or daughter seems tenuous even at this moment; it is hard to believe that another living creature is in there. I think Saul’s a good name for a boy, although Minerva might be more appropriate. Though the prospect of being a house-husband swaddled by mewling babes frightens me, the whole experience has been most enlightening. I wonder if my feelings are common.
They have the operating theatre all ready for me. Doctors circle like eager vultures. (A large fuss was needed to get my wife’s permission to be with me.) TV cameras wait, ready to dolly in for the close-ups; should we have sold tickets to the intrigued M.D.? But viewing privileges were included in the deal we made.
It will have to be the knife. The one thing I lack is an egress; however the little bugger managed to sneak inside me, he or she forgot to provide for a graceful exit. For some reason, neither my wife nor I really worried about it; I guess I thought I would sprout a zipper in the final week, or something.
They assure me the caesarean is routine and I do not have to be afraid.
Since this is a high-class operation, well-funded, I get the luxury of an epidural. I would have insisted on a local rather than general anesthetic in any case. I will not sleep through the birth of my child. In their arrogant professional distance they assumed I would take a dive. And not know what they were doing to me? I will endure pain if I must, but I will be there and awake the whole time.
The insufferable maleness of the medical profession has never been more evident.
*
The nurses are all on my side. They have been good to me. Those who have children of their own have spent time chatting with me to put me at ease; they made sure I was comfortable and not worried. It was at their urging that I insisted on staying awake.
Trembling shakes my body; I grasp the sides of the table. Where are my rope handles!
A white-masked face nods; another needle sinks into my flesh. They wheel a device which sounds like a coffee percolator to my side.
Holding my hand, my wife stands by me. She tries to look calm and loving, but I can see the fear, the worry in her eyes.
In her place, would I have cared so well?
My guts buckle. I suck air and scream in pain. This is a mistake. They wave the gas tube in my face. Are you sure? they inquire.
Don’t you dare, I threaten. My wife’s hand tightens around my fingers. They back off.
Another pain. How the devil can I suffer contractions when I don’t have a birth canal?
The entire event has been irregular that way.
The pains quicken. I moan softly. The doctors confer in whispers; then the head shaman steps near. He flexes his arms as if preparing to carve a holiday bird. They lift the white sheet from my body.
Somewhere below my monstrous belly hang my standard-issue male-type genitals. I have not seen them lately, being too fat in front for line-of-sight viewing, but since I can still urinate while standing, I assume that everything is still there. (Actually, I can still feel them when I wash.) So I am cheered; some things have not changed …
I want ice cream.
*
Ahhh the metal is cold! Damn them! Aieee!
My hairless flesh prickles at their touch. (They shaved me yesterday—my belly, that is. They had the goodness to leave the pubic hair intact, as it was not in the way.) They swab me down with antiseptics. The drying alcohol tingles. I imagine already hearing my child’s cries.
A wave of love fills me, dulling the first incision’s pain. I can tell I am bleeding.
The television lights shine on my skin. Ladies. have you tried … Unlike most commercial housewife illusions, my skin is not soft, but my wife still loves me.
In the later months of my pregnancy I was gleeful. I had never felt more handsome. But in the odd moments I found myself thinking. Is she out with other women now? Other men? Do l look fat and ugly now? Afraid, I did not mention these thoughts to my wife.
Under the bright-lit pain of parturition, my mask dissolves. I hear voices discussing me. I do not care.
My breath comes in chunks now: a haa, a-haa. My diaphragm is rock-hard. They are peeling me apart like an orange.
My breasts throb. My body is being tom in two. What are they doing to me? Pain, incredible pain, the rush of voices, the measured beat of calm nurses ready with the instruments, oxygen shoved in my mouth, futile nausea, wrenching jolts that shake the table and
rattle the trays. Shake, rattle and roll. My fingernails are ripping into my palms. How can they stand it? My eyes press shut in pain; my screams fill the room. No more strength now—let it be over, please! Hands explore me; fingers close like hooks in around the payload. My flesh parts and I feel the sucking as they lift the body from me, there is another wave of pain that blurs my eyes and I feel cold air inside me while I gasp above—and suddenly everything is silent, it is over.
In that still moment before they slap the baby into squalling life, I am overcome with emptiness; I am empty again and helpless to change it. Put it back in! I try to cry out, even as they begin to sew me up again, but I am too weak to speak. Reflex attempts to make me ignore my feelings, but they are too strong; reaching for my wife’s hand, I begin to weep. Overcome with grief, joy, and loss, I let my tears mingle with the cries of my newborn child.
Ron Goulart has been doing funny for a long time now, though he tends to favor science-fiction over fantasy. Well, this isn’t science-fiction. It’s plain silly. The very notion is silly. It’s as silly as silly can be. In this day and age. The very idea. Imagine. You just can’t take something so obviously silly and make a decent story out of it. A flip one-liner, a quirky gag, sure. But a story? No way. There’s no substance to it, no body, no meat, and besides, it’s silly.
You can’t rationalize it. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s too neat and easy. There’s not enough Work involved in the polishing. Trying to make a story out of the basic premise of “Please Stand By” is obviously an utter waste of time, and words, and paper, when there are so many more worthy subjects, so many more sage and subtle bits of satire that demand an author’s attention.
Well, I can see that there’s no point in beating you over the head with it, no way to get around it. The damn thing’s in here, so I guess you’re going to have to read it and see for yourself what I’m talking about. Then you’ll understand. After you’ve stopped reading.
And laughing.
Please Stand By
RON GOULART
The art department secretary put her Christmas tree down and kissed Max Kearny. “There’s somebody to see you,” she said, getting her coat the rest of the way on and picking up the tree again.
Max shifted on his stool. “On the last working day before Christmas?”
“Pile those packages in my arms,” the secretary said. “He says it’s an emergency.”
Moving away from his drawing board Max arranged the gift packages in the girl’s arms. “Who is it? A rep?”
“Somebody named Dan Padgett.”
“Oh, sure. He’s a friend of mine from another agency. Tell him to come on back.”
“Will do. You’ll have a nice Christmas, won’t you, Max?”
“I think the Salvation Army has something nice planned.”
“No, seriously. Max. Don’t sit around some cold bar. Well, Merry Christmas.”
“Same to you.” Max looked at the rough layout on his board for a moment and then Dan Padgett came in. “Hi, Dan. What is it?”
Dan Padgett rubbed his palms together. “You still have your hobby?”
Max shook out a cigarette from his pack. “The ghost detective stuff? Sure.”
“But you don’t specialize in ghosts only?” Dan went around the room once, then closed the door.
“No. I’m interested in most of the occult field. The last case I worked on involved a freelance resurrectionist. Why?”
“You remember Anne Clemens, the blonde?”
“Yeah. You used to go out with her when we worked at Bryan-Josephs and Associates. Skinny girl.”
“Slender. Fashion model type.” Dan sat in the room’s chair and unbuttoned his coat. “I want to marry her.”
“Right now?”
“I asked her two weeks ago but she hasn’t given me an answer yet. One reason is Kenneth Westerland.”
“The animator?”
“Yes. The guy who created Major Bowser. He’s seeing Anne, too.”
“Well,” said Max, dragging his stool back from the drawing board. “I don’t do lovelorn work, Dan. Now if Westerland were a vampire or a warlock I might be able to help.”
“He’s not the main problem. It’s if Anne says yes.”
“What is?”
“I can’t marry her.”
“Change of heart?”
“No.” Dan tilted to his feet. “No.” He rubbed his hands together. “No, I love her. The thing is there’s something wrong with me. I hate to bother you so close to Christmas, but that’s part of it.”
Max lit a fresh cigarette from the old one. “I still don’t have a clear idea of the problem, Dan.”
“I change into an elephant on all national holidays.”
Max leaned forward and squinted one eye at Dan. “An elephant?”
“Middle-sized gray elephant.”
“On national holidays?”
“More or less. It started on Halloween. It didn’t happen again till Thanksgiving. Fortunately I can talk during it and I was able to explain to my folks that I wouldn’t get home for our traditional Thanksgiving get-together.”
“How do you dial the phone?”
“I waited till they called me. You can pick up a phone with your trunk. I found that out.”
“Usually people change into cats or wolves.”
“I wouldn’t mind that,” Dan said, sitting. “A wolf, that’s acceptable. It has a certain appeal. I’d even settle for a giant cockroach, for the symbolic value. But a middle-sized gray elephant. I can’t expect Anne to marry me when I do things like that.”
“You don’t think,” said Max, crossing to the window and looking down at the late afternoon crowds, “that you’re simply having hallucinations?”
“If I am they are pretty authentic. Thanksgiving Day I ate a bale of hay.” Dan tapped his fingers on his knees. “See, the first time I changed I got hungry after a while. But I couldn’t work the damned can opener with my trunk. So I figured I’d get a bale of hay and keep it handy if I ever changed again.”
“You seemed to stay an elephant for how long?”
“Twenty-four hours. The first time both times I’ve been in my apartment, which has a nice solid floor I got worried. I trumpeted and stomped around. Then the guy upstairs, the queer ceramicist, started pounding on the floor. I figured I’d better keep quiet so nobody would call the cops and take me off to a zoo or animal shelter. Well, I waited around and tried to figure things out and then right on the nose at midnight I was myself again.”
Max ground his cigarette into the small metal pie plate on his workstand. “You’re not putting me on, are you?”
“No, Max.” Dan looked up hopefully. “Is this in your line? I don’t know anyone else to ask. I tried to forget it. Now, though, Christmas is nearly here. Both other times I changed was on a holiday. I’m worried.”
“Lycanthropy,” said Max. “That can’t be it. Have you been near any elephants lately?”
“I was at the zoo a couple of years ago. None of them bit me or even looked at me funny.”
“This is something else. Look, Dan, I’ve got a date with a girl down in Palo Alto on Christmas Day. But Christmas Eve I can be free. Do you change right on the dot?”
“If it happens I should switch over right at midnight on the twenty-fourth. I already told my folks I was going to spend these holidays with Anne. And I told her I’d be with them.”
“Which leaves her free to see Westerland.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“Major Bowser’s not a bad cartoon show.”
“Successful anyway. That dog’s voice is what makes the show. I hate Westerland and I’ve laughed at it.” Dan rose. “Maybe nothing will happen.”
“If anything does it may give me a lead.”
“Hope so. Well, Merry Christmas, Max. See you tomorrow night.”
Max nodded and Dan Padgett left. Leaning over his drawing board Max wrote Hex? on the margin of his layout.
He listened to th
e piped in music play Christmas carols for a few minutes and then started drawing again.
The bale of hay crackled as Max sat down on it. He lit a cigarette carefully and checked his watch again. “Half hour to go,” he said.
Dan Padgett poured some scotch into a cup marked Tom & Jerry and closed the Venetian blinds. “I felt silly carrying that bale of hay up here. People expect to see you with a tree this time of year.”
“You could have hung tinsel on it.”
“That’d hurt my fillings when I eat the hay.” Dan poured some more scotch and walked to the heater outlet. He kicked it once. “Getting cold in here. I’m afraid to complain to the landlady. She’d probably say ‘Who else would let you keep an elephant in your rooms? A little chill you shouldn’t mind.’”
“You know,” said Max, “I’ve been reading up on lycanthropy. A friend of mine runs an occult bookshop.”
“Non-fiction seems to be doing better and better.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any recorded case of were-elephants.”
“Maybe the others didn’t want any publicity.”
“Maybe. It’s more likely somebody has put a spell on you. In that case you could change into most anything.”
Dan frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. What time is it?”
“Quarter to.”
“A spell, huh? Would I have to meet the person who did it? Or is it done from a distance.?”
“Usually there has to be some kind of contact.”
“Say,” said Dan, lowering his head and stroking his nose, “you’d better not sit on the bale of hay. Animals don’t like people fooling with their food.” He was standing with his feet wide apart, his legs stiff.
Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves Page 18