Spondulix: A Romance of Hoboken

by Di Filippo, Paul

  By way of explanation Nerf spoke up, his voice emanating now from the tv speaker. “Look at this slice of pimento loaf, Rory A disgrace to the quality of the sandwiches I’m trying to produce out here. I count more holes than pimentos! Am I dealing with Swiss cheese or high- quality luncheon loaf? I’ve called our supplier a dozen times trying to get some satisfaction from him, but no go. We cannot feature this kind of substandard meat in our sandwiches. Our reputation, not to mention the integrity of spondulix, depends ultimately on the goods between the bread! Look, here’s another sample.”

  A giant hand whisked away the first slice of meat from the camera lens, revealing a segment of countertop. Then another piece of meat filled the field of view. “Look, they’ve used some kind of artificial pimento substitute in this whole loaf, undoubtedly to cut costs. You bite one of these inserts, you’ll think you’ve chewed off a hunk of brine-soaked cardboard.”

  Rory began to grow a little angry himself. The pimentos here looked positively gray.

  The offending slice disappeared, to be replaced by another, hundreds of times more awful-looking. God, this meat seemed rancid! Pitted, bumpy, porous. Only when a slit in the lunchmeat began to move did Rory realize that Nerfball had contorted himself so as to push his face against the lens.

  “Rory, I wont stand for this. People are just trying to take advantage of us because we’re rich. I need your permission to switch suppliers.”

  Reactivating the intercom, Rory wearily replied, “Okay, Nerf, okay. Enough already. No more gruesome exhibits. I feel like a police coroner. Permission granted.”

  “Thanks, Rory. Sorry to have bothered you. But I’ve only got the company’s best interests at heart.”

  “Of course, sure, I appreciate your hard work, Nerf.”

  Rory shut off both monitor and intercom and turned back to his desk, a new executive model with a capacious work surface. Letters covered nearly the entire top of this platform. Letters jammed in folders, letters lying in baskets, letters banded with elastics, letters stuck with Post-It notes. Letters spilled from their envelopes or remained pristine and mysterious within unslit vessels. There were letters written with crayon in schoolchild penmanship, and letters generated by laser printer in fancy fonts. Threatening letters, cajoling letters, curious letters. Letters wanting to buy something, letters wanting to sell. Letters of explanation, letters of introduction, letters of comment. Curses and blessings, spew and logic. Letters addressed variously to Honeyman’s Heroes, Spondulix Company, Hoboken Savings & Loan, Erlkonig Enterprises, Funny Money Guys, and—uniquely, intriguingly—Herr. R. Honigmann. Letters postmarked from New Jersey, New York, New England, from around America and around the world. Letters with stamps exotic and plain. Letters on thick rag bond and thin airmail tissue-paper, on primary-school pulp and even on napkins. Letters stuffed with flyers, clippings, photos of their naked inscribers, and three-dimensional objects too numerous to catalog, which filled several large plastic tubs in one corner of Rory’s office like the prizes from a thousand Crackerjack boxes.

  Sitting in the other three corners of the room were bags and bags of more letters. The heavy canvas sacks, stenciled US Postal Service, their necks choked by cords pulled through metal clasps, looked like an army of slouching soldiers garroted by enemy infiltrators.

  Now that Rory had handled the latest problem in Nerfball’s larder, he could get back to his fulltime job: dealing with these miscellaneous missives.

  After Rory had heard from Erlkonig’s own lips that he, Earl, craved raw unfettered power above all else; after witnessing first-hand the spread of spondulix into the adjacent metropolis; after being counseled by Addie to assert himself rather than retreat, Rory had returned to Hoboken with a new sense of mission. He could not just sit back and let the fiscal empire centered around spondulix careen through civilization like a juggernaut without at least trying to govern its course somewhat. He had to impose his sensibilities on the monster to however small a degree, if only so that someday in court he could stand up and honestly say, “No, your Honor, I did not idly sit by while my friends subverted the world’s economy. I actually advised them; hopefully along paths of moderation.” Better to look like a judicious accomplice, he figured, than an incompetent figurehead.

  Addie had seconded this moderate course of action. Rory immediately invoked his titular position on the Hoboken S & L Board of Directors and insisted on attending all meetings. Consent had come swiftly, and Rory had showed up at the first meeting prepared to state his case stubbornly and clearly. But the agenda, he soon realized, had been censored for his benefit. The issues raised and decisions to be voted on all related to trivial matters. Of the major campaigns to spread spondulix, Rory learned little, despite his insistent probing. The stonewalling was intense and seamless.

  When, after the second such gathering, Rory had grown frustrated and demanded some duties, Erlkonig had paused a moment, knuckled his reddened eyes (lately the generally unflappable dynamo of a fellow was showing some reaction to what must have been great stresses and pressures), then said, “Okay, moll, you can answer all our unsolicited mail.”

  The next day Rory had arrived in his newly furnished, fresh-smelling, virginal office at the back of the sandwich shop’s annex to discover the first of many duffels of mail, hundreds of which he had dealt with since. At this starting point still genuinely curious and unjaded, Rory had dug into the sack. The earliest letters he found bore postmarks from the start of July, just when spondulix had begun to take off. Rory answered these original missives conscientiously and in full. But as he plunged deeper into the backlog, which swelled much faster than he could deal with it, he grew more and more bored, angry and fatigued, answering fewer and fewer letters, and those minimally. Each day brought freshets of inquiries, demands and offers which sapped Rory’s internal resources. Still he persisted, lacking any other official chore to turn his hand to. At least this way, perhaps, he could smooth over the public image of spondulix to a small degree.

  Right now he chose to focus on the letter addressed Teutonically: “Herr R. Honigmann, Spondulix GmbH, Hoboken, Neu Jersey.” This letter bore the surnameless return address of “Alvensleben, Geltsberg, Schleswig-Holstein.” After studying the foreign envelope for a moment, Rory slid the envelope through his electric envelope-slicer, blew some air past his untidy moustache into the paper sheath to puff out its sides, and shook out the letter.

  Dear Herr Honigmann:

  It is unlikely in the highest degree for you to possess familiarity with the humble name of my lineage, to wit, Afzelius. Yet, miracle of miracles, I am acquainted with yours! You see, matters fall out thus:

  In years gone by, when our little province of Schleswig-Holstein—once a proud and independent duchy—was the cynosure of scheming Prussian, Austrian and Danish military men, the Honigmann and Afzelius clans were staunch good friends, both allied with the glorious Danes.

  Ah, that era of heady patriotic fervor! What is there nowadays to compare? Many stories have I heard since my hirth regarding the heroism and generosity of the Honigmanns! Sad indeed were the Afzelius folk when in the year of shame 1866 the Honigmanns were forced by a vindictive Bismarck to emigrate to “the land of the brave and the home of the free.” Due to the insufficient nature of primitive communications in those days, all contact was lost between our two clans. Although still I treasure an archaic letter addressed to my ancestor detailing the birth of little Horst Honigmann, who I believe must have been or may yet still be, Gott willing!, your grandfather.

  Imagine, if you can encompass it, my surprise to receive a newsclipping from my American cousin who is actual neighbor to you in the little village of Weehawken! Said clipping detailing your personal history and the charming, ingenious manner in which you have invented the new currency, spondulix. (What a sobriquet of genius, very “hip!”)

  Now, you must not conceive that I am writing to you solely to ask the following favor. No, more glorious yet is my intended reestablishment of contact
between our two houses. (Have I mentioned yet Gerta, my marriageable youngest daughter?) From this date forward, you can count on me for steadfast communication throughout the remainder of my mortal span. (I currently number 77 years, yet Papa Afzelius attained 101!)

  However; there remains one impediment to the peace of mind which would enable me to be a worthwhile correspondent. You have perhaps heard of the Common Market dunderheads in Belgium who now issue mad ukases concerning agricultural trade. Since their dictatorship, the Afzelius dairy has suffered immensely. Rivers of cheap cream flood into our cities from Espagne (where, I am reliably informed, the farmers subsist on bread and beans while living in rude huts, thus undercutting our own decent wages).

  Unless we can somehow supplement our income, we will have to sell ancestral lands to some rapacious developer who will doubtlessly construct a shopping center or nuclear power plant or fast-food restaurant on the rolling green fields where once Honigmann males spilled their blood battling the foul Prussians!

  Meanwhile; though, my cousin has sent me a ten-spondulix note which I had no trouble redeeming at the local bierkeller for a happy-making stein or three! If you could possibly see fit to send me a substantial number of such notes (strictly as a loan, you understand), I would be able to rescue our farm from debt. Please, do not renege on the ancient pledge of fraternity made of yore between the families Honigmann and Afzelius!

  Yours in solidarity,

  Arvid Afzelius

  Rory put the letter down. A tear swelled in the corner of each eye. His poor lost grandfather! How long ago Rory’s childhood seemed! The ache he had felt at his grandparents’ icy, watery death. The transmutation of his poignant childish emotions into a fixation on diving. The fiasco at the Olympics. Sometimes the whole painful catalog seemed like someone else’s past, alien and incomprehensible, a senseless account from a musty history book. At other times, such as now, Rory inhabited the landscape of his memories more vividly than he did the present.

  He took a big fresh manila envelope and scribbled Afzelius’s name and address on it. Using a piece of Hoboken S & L stationery, he wrote a short note.

  Dear Arvid,

  Good to hear from you. Hope this helps. Stay in touch.

  Best wishes,

  Rory Honeyman

  PS: We changed the name.

  PPS: I have a steady girlfriend.

  Rory opened a lower desk drawer, deep as an Iowa hog farms feed trough. The drawer held spondulix. He removed twenty thousand worth in large denominations, put them into the envelope along with the note, sealed the envelope, and finally tossed it into a plastic postal tub with the other outgoing mail he had finished that day. He made ready to reach for another piece of mail, then stopped himself. He took Afzelius’s letter, placed it in another envelope along with a similar amount of spondulix, then addressed the package to his parents. Certainly Dad would enjoy hearing about his own father.

  Feeling a bit happier, still misty-eyed, Rory randomly thrust his hand into a big pile of mail and pulled out another letter. This one too flaunted an overseas postmark, from Hungary no less.

  My Dear Boy!

  Yes, it is I, Czeslaw Dzubas, your old coach! Although the years have piled themselves up between us like that blessedly fallen, much-hated Iron Curtain, and although we did not part under the happiest of circumstances, I still retain an overwhelming fondness for you, and hope that some spark of affection within your own bosom can still reciprocate. You were my best, my most diligent student, and we traveled far and high. I recall with admiration and a near-paternal pride your final, silver-winning dive. “Poor indeed is the student who does not polish his master’s tools,” as I always say. And let us forget any debate over the wisdom of your wild political anarchy, shall we? One is young only once! I assume you have since matured, and, acknowledging the global triumph of capitalism and democracy, come around to a more sensible position honorable of your glorious nation.

  Perhaps you have wondered from time to time where your “Uncle Coleslaw” has been for the last three decades. Allow me to fulfill your curiosity. When we parted I journeyed to America’s West Coast, where I soon found myself coaching the idle children of privilege, scions of Hollywood stars and studio moguls. A remunerative existence; but a soulless one! Eventually a feeling overcame me which I was forced to acknowledge as homesickness. After twenty-some years abroad, I longed for my native soil. So during the tenure of your President Jimmy Carter, when all the world looked so bright with the light of detente—kisses on devilish old Brezhnev’s cheek, even!—I returned with all my savings to my native Buda-Pesht.

  Needless to say, the liberal dawn proved false! The shackles of Communism still clanked with fierce brutality! A mere thirteen years ahead of the rest of my country in my dreams (have I not always been among the avant-garde?), I found myself immediately clapped into prison as a returned traitor! (Legend had it that my cell was identical to the one inhabited by the blessed martyr Nagy.) Moreover, the state sequestered all my savings!

  Once the exultant collapse of 1989 crumbled the various Bastilles of Eastern Europe, I finally attained my freedom. But the ensuing years proved challenging. I made scant movement toward either wealth or security. Many dubious schemes occupied my energies in those first tumultuous years of freedom. Both I and my country seemed to make little progress toward any stability, never mind achieving Utopia on earth. But of late; dear old Hungary floats on a more even keel and hopes shine brighter. Which brings me to your own recent enterprises.

  With spondulix, you have done much toward aiding your fellow man! Even here your good deeds are known! With every delivery of spondulix that flows into Hungary from American relatives, our economy prospers! It would do your heart good to see all the happy faces in the discos and coffeehouses!

  In this new age of entrepreneurship, I have conceived a sure-fire plan to boost my own personal fortunes, a plan which will also delight children and adults alike. I wish to construct Hungary’s first recreational waterslide amusement park! Now, do not laugh at the fevered dreams of an old man, Rory, my son. I know my country’s needs and tastes inside and outside and am confident of total success. All that stands between me and bliss is working capital. But all my confiscated monies were long ago spent on yet another dreary gray fiat of shoddy apartments, or perhaps the nosecone of an SS-2O (now, thank God, dismantled!). In any case, those funds are beyond recovery.

  Rory, my lad—could you possibly see fit to transmit to your old mentor a few thousand spondulix? I would be forever in your debt, and would go so far as to christen the whole park in your name!

  As they used to say in L.A., “I won’t call you till you call me!”

  Your old friend,

  Czeslaw

  Rory could practically smell chlorinated pool water and weird tobacco. “You are going to whack your head, young man, if you don’t get closer to the edge.” A lump in his throat argued for his attention only slightly more strongly than a flutteriness in his stomach. Too strange! What was going on today? He felt karmically magnetized, drawing people out of his past. His life seemed to be biting its own tail, imploding on itself.

  Rory inscribed an envelope to his old coach. He took one hundred of the new, pumpernickel-colored thousand-spondulix notes out of the drawer. He put them into the envelope, which bulked like an overstuffed hoagie. Then, trying to gather his emotions, he slowly composed a simple note, all he had time for.

  Dear Czeslaw,

  You will always remind me of a time when I was generally happy, if a bit confused. You always did right by me. I owe you a lot. I’m glad to help you now. Good luck with the waterslide. No need to name it after me—that generous gesture might doom it! I tried to send you enough money so that you could send vodka gushing down the slides, ha-ha! Let me know if you need more.

  Your favorite “dissident,”

  Rory

  The plastic “outgoing” tub acquired another care package.

  Hesitantly, fearful of what ghost he m
ight encounter on this plunge, Rory dipped his hand into the mail yet to be answered. The next item to offer itself, however, proved to be only a generic solicitation from a real-estate firm trying to convince one “Mister Spondulix” to invest in a timesharing retreat on Cape Cod. The letter after that originated with a woman in Pine Mountain, Georgia. She offered Rory eternal devoted companionship followed shortly by palimony. In fact, she seemed already to be carrying his child.

  The gist of her rambling text was rather confusing. Studying the Polaroid she had enclosed, Rory could detect no signs of pregnancy, nor even any stretchmarks. Boy, he’d never known that lingerie makers had perfected thigh-high nylons that could stay up firmly when the wearer assumed such a position. Wonder if Addie could be convinced to wear such stockings?

  Well, enough daydreaming. Gotta get on with his appointed task. Next came an appeal from the NRA for a donation. Rory sent them a ten-spot. Succeeding them, the wife of a murdered policeman made a touching appeal for some funds to support gun-control. Rory sent her ten, too. Let the opposing camps fight it out. His job, insofar as Erlkonig had deigned to explain it, consisted in simply getting more and more spondulix into circulation, regardless of cause. Consequently, Rory refused hardly any legitimate organization, and only a few outright dangerous crazy ones. Spondulix exhibited the same value-neutral avidity for wider dissemination that real cash did. The Switzerland of currencies, spondulix embraced any and all patrons.