by John Sladek
‘Uh, no, it’s—it’s just a paint-mixing machine.’
‘See you then. So long, Ank.’
The door closed, setting up a breeze that stirred the empty paper sleeve on the floor. It made one clumsy painting movement, then lay still.
‘Fear of effeminacy. It might work,’ said General Weimarauner. ‘Combined with fear of the fool. The—The Pink Barrettes?’ He began to laugh, inclining his noble head and putting up a hand as if to ward off blows. ‘I’m tempted, Hackendorf, I’m tempted!’
He paused to study the figure in red velvet sitting in another corner of the coffee shop. Nudging Hackendorf, he dropped his voice to say, ‘Look at that, will you? Did you ever see such an ugly woman in your life? Gad, any uglier and they’d draft her. Come to think of it, she reminds me of an aide I used to have, only she’s about fifty pounds heavier. What was his name, now? Pouts?’
He tore his attention away from the person in the corner, who had just ordered six Danish pastries and a chocolate malt. ‘The Pink Barrettes! Yes by God, we’ll do it. I can just see them on parade!’
The Knight of Columbus was telling the last person he could find about the accident in the elevator shaft. Jerry was looking for Myra. The gloomy producer was telling someone about Miss Columbine: ‘Balling somebody all evening on that sunken sofa, and nobody even noticed.’ There was no one left for the American Studies professor to tell a Little Moron Joke to. The hot-dog publisher had fallen asleep in a chair, letting his coat open to reveal his truss.
Bradd asked the cryogenics man for the hundredth time if he was sure it could be done.
‘See voo play,’ someone asked, ‘oo ay lays Ohm? E.c. ay lay Fum, may oo ay lays Ohm?’ He gestured at the bedroom door.
‘What do you want with a man? Won’t I do?’
‘Of course it’ll work,’ said the cryogenics man. ‘We freeze donuts, don’t we? So why not a girl?’
‘Can’t wreck her appearance, though.’ Bradd removed his TV glasses and inspected them for dirt. ‘She’s got to look good, for, say, thirty or forty years. In front of the cameras, anyway.’
‘Don’t worry about a thing. Now, what price range freezer were you thinking of?’
Glen Dale put on the ninth tape. There were ten, arranged by experts in order of arousal, and now there was nothing left but half an hour of Ravel’s Bolero.
And he still hadn’t figured out a way of kissing Miranda, the girl in the peach-sundae dress. He had fed her arousing music, stirred up the fire in the fireplace, changed (behind a screen) into a dressing gown of red silk, poured many brandies into their two snifters, switched on the electronic odorizer that filled the room with musk and frankincense, talked knowledgeably of Krafft-Ebbing and Tantric Yoga, even shown her selections from a Cinerama blue film. Now he sat inches away from her on the bed and toyed with the tassel of his dressing gown. All this brought them to the point where he had to make a move—or a mistake.
‘I gotta go home now,’ she said, looking at her watch.
‘But it’s early!’
‘Don’t argue with me, I said I gotta go! Anyways, I can’t crap around here all night waiting for you to make up your mind. We been in here three hours,’ she said. ‘Three hours, and nothing happened.’
‘But I…’
‘I guess you think I’m not good enough for you, with all your Miss Monthly girls and Does and all.’ She stood up, straightened her ruffles and smiled. ‘So bye-bye.’
‘Wait, Miranda, wait!’
Miranda did not wait. She chose the wrong door, tugged at her skirt, and marched over to it. ‘Bye-bye.’
Six people in Egyptian costumes tumbled in upon her, accompanied by several dozen gallons of water.
‘Christ almighty! What the hell is this, a voyeur hotel?’ Extricating herself, Miranda kicked at the Egyptians.
‘Miranda, I—wait…’
The right door slammed. Glen sank back on the bed. The six fake Egyptians scrambled up and came to sit next to him, one pausing to turn up the taped music.
‘Nice sounds, man. Who is it? Sounds like The Andrew Jackson Davis Penetralia.’
Alone in his room, Bates, the young anglophile, took off his wicker suit and hung it up carefully. It was, after all, a suit with a London label, from a shop on Portobello Road, even if he had bought it at a Minneapolis department store.
Next he took off his imported English leather shoes, his imported English wool socks, and his Union Jack ‘Standfast’ underwear. He crawled into bed to meet his insomnia.
That Englishman, Sir Somebody, had laughed at him! That was the worst part. They all knew by now: He hadn’t been to England at all.
The nearest he ever got was buying something English, reading a travel guide, or corresponding with his pen pal, a ten-year-old boy in Scunthorpe whose hobbies included collecting American stamps. The little snot was blackmailing him: information on the English scene for batches of stamps.
This wasn’t jolly hockey-sticks at all. He’d have to get to England itself, no matter how. England! my England! he thought. England’s green and pleasant land. Swinging England. Land of hope and glory. Little Olde England, where the sun never sets…
He gazed on the picture over his bed, a dazzling picture of the Queen, while his right hand moved under the covers in a familiar and traditional rhythm, old as the rhythm of the waves over which Britannia rules.
Eight: The House
NUMBER ONE TAKES CARE OF ITSELF
………. noun is a replacement for the pronoun I wonder Bob wonders this man wonders how the hell long he’s going to be in here trapped here in an abandoned mind shaft (and are the psychiatrists still digging out there?) and buried under tons of crushing self buried a back number: ‘They have parsed my hands and my feet, they have numbered all my bones’ now there’s a thought more noughts than crosses though a crucial difference that essential plus
Old numb copybones the headbone connected to nothing really the fingerbone maybe that digit in my nostril really is one and ‘hands and feet’ are measurements too they have me here the integers, trace, fear, sank, sex they (la enemy Hymeneal, read me any way I’m still an em wide) have fed me right into their number mumbling machine I’m
That’s me all right, the old inchworm. And my winding sheet is
ROBINS ON COURSE
Luckily I managed to rescue from the shipwreck an inflatable house, miniature bulldozer, seeds, farming implements, swimming pool kit, prefab bomb shelter, guns, ammo, libraries and lab equipment for geology, botany, zoology, horticulture, medicine and chemistry, instructions for building and operating generators, miniature manufacturing systems of several kinds, ‘Hints for the Amateur Fanner’, supplies of fuel and food for at least five years, a wilderness survival kit and guide, carpenters’, plumbers’ and machinists’ tool kits, a selection of light novels (neither depressing nor the kind that make civilization look too good), several hundred pounds each of wood, plastic, metal stock, glue, epoxy, nails, small standard machine parts, an abundance of copper wire and electronic parts in all sizes, several radios, televisions, home appliances of all descriptions (all portable and with extra batteries), a one man oil-drilling rig, a small tape recorder suitable for memoranda and recording bird cries, a barbecue hat, briquets, etc., etc.
The thought of escape is not so tasty as the thought of keeping what I’ve got. The crash-priority projects must be:
(1) a first-line defense system (alarms, mortars, shelter and perhaps short-range rocket defense).
(2) hygienic water supply and sewage disposal.
(3) oil refinery.
(4) swimming pool and barbecue pit.
(5) drugs from local flora (the supply of Noctec, Miltown, Somnos, Librium, Equanil, Trancopal, etc., is alarmingly low already).
These should keep me pretty busy for a few months, after which I’ll be able to get up trie NO TRESPASSING signs, ser up the printing press, maybe run off my own currency.
The island is snug and comfy already. The
only thing (besides lack of sex and the old nagging headache) that really bothers me is the stationary cloud hanging overhead. It’s been there the whole first month, neither moving nor changing.
And there’s this pair of feet sticking down out of it.
SILLY, DIS IDYLL IS
Meanwhile back in my lounge chair, I decide the whole thing—this room, the experimenters, maybe my perceptions—is plastic. By my calendar watch I’ve been here three days, surely long enough to prove whatever they want to prove. Enough entombment! Abra cadavera! I rise from the dead.
I rise, walk through the steel air, past the vapid faces of Donagon & Co., right on into the crisco wall…surfacing in the paradise of my childhood back yard.
Every detail in depth, enveloped with a strange importance. The Sinclair station on the corner, every whitewashed brick in place, every delicate color within the whiteness. Under one of its murky windows the remains of a circus poster make a Rorschach pattern, a map of Odd Islands. The earth is steeped in oil, the dinosaur sign creaks overhead, and the poster remains spell a message: HE UNSTOPS BEST ALLIES, TOO. EFFORTLESS? HE UNSTOPS BEST ALLIES, TOO, RETHATCHED KING THISTLE BOTHERS EVIL ENDS. REQUESTED RICE.
I turn away from the station, feeling an ordinary death about this place: By my back porch hollyhocks are shrivelling to hairy stalks; the back porch itself is dying, and there is the gray catenary of clothesline from the house to the little birch I scalped last summer to make a toy canoe. Some dog has turned over the crumpled garbage can and nosed open all its packages of coffee grounds. Maybe the same dog who dug up the yard in four or five places, looking for a spot for his relic bones. I could sit here in the cool grass and die with the dying hollyhocks, watch them give up their ‘money’ seeds…but there’s work to do, O sinclairosaur.
Unfurling the flag of the United States of America, I plant the staff firmly in a relic hole and repeat the memorized speech. Claim this planet. People of the United States. Peace loving.
When it’s over I sit down for a moment, my head buzzing with Valium, Striatran, Noludar, Listica, Somnos, Lenetran and Trepidone. Two small white butterflies settle to picnic together on a glistening dog turd. The sun is warm.
Part 3: Cement Socks
Nine
There was no altar, only a platform with a microphone and a banner, BELIEVE ON ME. There was no vaulted cathedral, only an ordinary baseball stadium. There were no fine vestments, only a simple, well-tailored business suit. And, though few knew it, there was no Billy Koch, only a sophisticated android.
It lacked nothing in programming; all of Billy’s habits were intact. His powerful hands kneaded the air (‘Give Jesus your love! Give it to Him now)!, his brows contracted (‘Suspended over a pit of flaming fahr! Forget about your puny h-bomb!’) and his mighty chest heaved with simulated emotion (‘He’s a-comin’ in a fiery jet! His face is like a blast furnace! He’s callin’ out—who, me, Lord? You want me? YES, Lord, I’m ready! I’M READY FOR ETERNITY!’).
The service too was unchanged. Before the great man actually appeared, there came preliminary events, ‘warmups’:
A large choir began with a medley of popular hymns, then a warmup preacher delivered a short, hard-hitting sermon that reassured the audience they had come to the right place. He mentioned high taxes, temptations of the young, national unrest caused by Communism and darker races. He praised the basic honesty and faith of rural white Americans and their kin, the four freedoms, motherhood, and the principle of driving moneychangers out of temples.
Then, following an organ selection that leaned towards sustained low notes and tremolo effects, the lights dimmed out. Each member of the audience was given thirty seconds in which to feel alone and apprehensive. When it was quiet enough, a voice broke the tension, crying over the p.a. system: ‘JESUS LIVES! JESUS LIVES!’
A spot picked him out: The heavy ridge of brow and high forehead, the crisp, pale suit with massive shoulders (called in the trade ‘an FBI’), the glittering smile of ecstasy as he closed his eyes and opened his arms to embrace them, his flock of thirty-five thousand. He held this pose for ten long beats. Then…
The eyes came open: Virgin blue. The audience screamed its blessing upon him, and the deep organ bass cut in under their scream. Billy led them in ‘Rock of Ages’, his theme song.
‘Brothers and sisters, I don’t know why you came out here tonight. Some of you may just be curious—you want to see the man who talks so much about Gawd—but that’s all right. That’s all right, Gawd welcomes you.
‘Some of you, well, maybe you found the religion of your childhood just doesn’t seem to work any more. Maybe you’ve lost faith. Or maybe you really tried to believe, but things just got too much for you? And you felt like quitting.
‘Why didn’t you quit, then? I’ll tell you why: It wasn’t Gawd’s will! I’m telling ALL of you here tonight, that it was the LORD JESUS CHRIST that led you here! Jesus wants you all to get another chance! Yes, Jesus knows all your suffering and all your trials!
‘Yes, neighbors, I don’t know why you came down here tonight—but I came here to BEAR WITNESS TO THE LORD JESUS CHRIST!’
A low cheer, mixed with amens, came from the claquers.
‘YES, TO BEAR WITNESS! JESUS IS ALIVE TONIGHT, RIGHT HERE IN THIS AUDITORIUM! HE’S IN ME—AND NEIGHBORS, HE CAN BE IN YOU!!’
The cheers were general this time.
Billy went on to make a joke about a frog in a rut, who couldn’t possibly get out—but then a track came along and he had to; the laughter was extravagant.
‘Now there’s a lot of talk about the “miracles” of modern science, about “miracle” drugs, yes, and even toothpaste has its “miracle” ingredient.
‘But I want to talk to you about another kind of “miracle” ingredient. You can’t find it at the drugstore. It won’t make you smell sweeter or smile brighter. But it is the most powerful force on earth or anywhere else. And I’m talking about the miracle ingredient FAITH!
‘There’s all kinds of faith. We read a lot of claptrap in the papers about scientists smashing atoms, putting men inside of computers, I don’t know what all. Well, you can believe that or not. I never saw a smashed atom, neither did you. Nobody did. We just have faith somebody can do it.
‘Now there is something plain ridiculous about a man who will believe there is a bomb a million times more powerful than dynamite, a bomb that gives more light than a thousand suns—and who still won’t believe THAT GAWD LOVES HIM!’
When the laughs, cheers and hallelujahs subsided:
‘I won’t tell you faith moves mountains. I think the Lord put His mountains where He wanted them, anyway. But I do know of a woman who had a bad car accident. Her little four-year-old boy was pinned underneath the car, and it was crushing the life out of him! That woman—who stood just five-foot two and never lifted anything heavier than a grocery bag before in her life…’
And so it went, until the finale:
‘Have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ! Have faith in Almighty Gawd! Have faith in the Lamb! Have faith in the Blood of the Lamb! Have faith in the Almighty Pahwr of the Lord! Have faith that He can save you! Have faith that He can heal you! Have faith and forget about your quack doctors and fake medicines! Have faith and forget about the “miracles” of modern medicine! Have faith, and forget about braces and crutches and pills and potions and knives! Have faith and forget about hospitals and x-rays and specialists and surgeons and iron lungs and artificial hearts! Have faith! Have faith! Have FAITH IN THE HEALING HAND OF THE LORD!’
Pom-papa-pom pom pom the organ began a sprightly march. Billy’s replica held out its arms, and the afflicted (directed by Crusade police to their places in line) came forward for their cures.
‘Billikins?’
He awoke from a dream (God, a high-powered executive surrounded by anxious angel subordinates, was just about to place an order for a thousand gross souls) and found her watching him, this fat, red-faced person called Nurse.
‘You want
some breakfast?’
‘They’re hiding something from me, Nurse.’
‘Who is?’ She began helping him out of his wet pajamas.
‘I don’t know…the doctor, maybe. And that one-legged man that comes around all the time.’
‘Jerry?’ Her dark red curls shook. ‘Don’t be silly, Billikins. Jerry’s your friend. He brings us presents.’ She often wore one of the presents, a huge black negligee.
‘Well, I don’t care! I caught him in my room yesterday, looking at my wall. And he was laughing!’
Nurse’s face grew redder from wrestling him into a business suit. Though her uniform was always rumpled and sweaty looking, she smelled only of starch. Billikins didn’t like Nurse much, and he decided he’d better not let her look at his wall, either.
His wall was a picture of the world as it really was, and it was also a message, the word of the LORD to His elect, spoken through the prophet Billikins. He’d tried many times to explain it to Nurse, because he’d been so sure she was one of the elect, but she wouldn’t listen.
She preferred to go in the bedroom with Jerry and lock the door and lock him out. They were having secrets in there, terrible secrets. Jerry was one of the damned. Already his foot had gone to Hell, Billikins knew.
He’d tried to explain to her why he liked to watch Billy Koch on television. It wasn’t that silly little man waving his arms around and speaking about Gawd. There was something else, a real deep voice, so deep you couldn’t hear it unless you were one of the elect, so slow you couldn’t make out the words unless you were one of the elect. And, in a way, you didn’t listen to it at all. In a way, you looked at it--no, that wasn’t right either. You just knew it was there. Nurse had just laughed at that.
After breakfast he gave her one more chance.
‘Nurse, the LORD moves me,’ he said.
‘You have to go to the bathroom? You want to go potty?’ She leaped up and began tugging at his belt.