"Hullooo?" came the voice again.
"Should we let him in?" asked Nan.
"Yes, but be careful. Be on your toes. Don't tell him anything. He may work for the revenuers. They're everywhere, I tell you, and are just waiting for a chance to destroy us."
"Okay. We'll be very careful. No cult evangelist is going to fool us."
"Let him in, Nan."
"Certainly, Nin."
The man at the door was weird and had silver stars in his long white beard. His shirt had white stars on a blue background, as did his duffel bag, and his loose pantaloons were pied red and white. His stovepipe hat swirled all four colors together. But he was barefoot.
Slung back over his shoulder was a folk guitar on a white silk strap. The strap had the initials "SRV" embroidered into it in silver thread.
"Couldn't stand the weather?" asked Nan, assuming the visitor to be a Stevie Ray Vaughn fan.
"Hulloo? Oh—the strap. My brother found it in an alley in Austin, Texas. It was a night when Jimmy Vaughn was playing with his brother's old band. Everyone said they could sense Stevie's presence that night, and then my brother, who tended bar there at Antone's, went outside for a smoke and spotted the strap. He brought it in and one of the guys in the band went pale and asked him where he'd gotten it. He said the alley. The band guy said that was spooky because it was Stevie's old strap."
Nan looked at Nin, "No Rogerian Strategy here, eh?"
Nin laughed. "Apparently not." He turned his attention to Uncle Sam. "What can we do for you?"
Nan's attention began to wander.
You know, at some point I stopped writing, and I started talking. Is this the epiphany I, as a Joycean, had set myself up for? Or am I delusional?
"..., so I'd be happy to play a song." Nan had missed the first half of the sentence, the cause in the causal connection. Without that, for all Nan knew, Nin and Nan could be facing a post hoc ergo propter hoc argument or a deceptive enthymeme or a nonsequitur. Unless the premise is true, the conclusion is invalid.
Nin was distracted by the strange look on Nan's face, and responded for them both: "Depends on the song."
Nin ushered Uncle Sam in, and Nan went to the fridge to get some Jesus' Own Brand cheap wine with a smiling half-crocked Jesus on the label, halo and all. In the famous TV commercial, Jesus would sing, "You gotta have J.O.B. if you wanna be with me."
"Halooo?" pointed out Uncle Sam, touching the label like God touching Adam's outstretched finger. To his credit, he shook his head and said, "No, don't drink."
Nan responded with, "Don't mind if I do," and poured two glasses. Nan handed one to Nin.
They clinked, and Nan said, "To the song! What song have you brought us, oh Elliptical One?"
"Elliptical One?"
"That's good, isn't it?"
"You just make that up?"
"Yep."
"Okay. Good. Keep going."
"Oh, Bringer of the Tune, we'd like to hear you soon."
Uncle Sam snapped to attention as if he'd forgotten he was part of the conversation and had been playing at being Strictly Silent Observer Man. I don't think he has a superhero complex.
"Okay," said Uncle Sam. "Here goes." He flipped his guitar around, pulled a pick out his pick pocket, and prestidigitated, but no sound came out for the longest time until a slight bell could be heard way far away, like a church in a blizzard, just barely audible. It began to shape itself around a letter, a note...
Z. Buzz. By Uncle Sam
Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz. Zeboombadoom!
Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz. Zeboombadoom!
We send our bombs hailing down on you, those of you in Sector Blue,
you who've been so gravel-blind (as to) take Granny Smith for Gravenstein.
A. Smash! A. Smash! A. Smash! Krackaragnarok!
A. Smash! A. Smash! A. Smash! Krackaragnarok!
We saw the signs come down in flames and the erasure of our agents' names.
We saw the road get taken down (by)
a modern James Gang, as they say in town.
Clickety snap! Clickety snap!
Cuff 'em! Read 'em their rights!
Then string 'em up from the highest tree! We'll have peace in town tonight!
There'll be no deviation from our prescription. The road will have to be rebuilt.
Kill the wrecking crew before they kill you. Can't you see their guilt?
Snap swing swing swing! Snap swing! Zeboombadoom!!
No one can stop us now
or tell us what to sing!
Death to our friends, our enemies!
Death to all we see!
Death to the infidel and to the god-fearing! See them in that tree!
Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz. Zeboombadoom!
Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz. Z. Buzz.
Zeboombadoom
Uncle Sam had been singing since 11:55 a.m. By noon, nonconformists Nan and Nin knuckled under and announced that they could stand no more of his music.
"What kind of music was that?" asked Nin.
"I call it 'political satire,'" said Uncle Sam.
"No—it sounds more like propaganda," said Nan.
"Redneck propaganda."
"Truly," said Nin, "you suck. Those were the lamest lyr
ics. What were all the goofy sounds? Did you want them to
be onomatopoeia? Or is this a song for silly little children?" "And the nitwits."
Uncle Sam looked offended. "Then which are you?
Children or nitwits?"
"Neither."
"Did you even listen to the lyrics? They're a warning." "I heard enough to hear that they blow," said Nin. "No no no—you need to study the lyrics!" replied Uncle Sam.
"No no no," said Nan, mockingly. "You need to go!" "No, here. Here's a copy of my CD," and Uncle Sam
opened his duffel bag. The odor of dirty laundry quickly
filled the room. Nin saw dozens of CDs inside the bag besides the stinky clothing. Uncle Sam pulled out a peachcolored CD case with black lettering announcing its title:
CD for Nin and Nan.
Nin realized that Uncle Sam's visit could not have been
accidental.
"Why would we want your stinkin' CD?" asked Nan.
Nin picked up the CD and showed the title to Nan. "Hey, Brother Sam did this just for us."
"Oh, he just has a different cover for each copy he
brings to each house."
"No," interjects Uncle Sam. "That's the actual title. I've
sold dozens of them. Look," and he pulled dozen more of
the same CD out of his bag.
"How much are you selling them for?"
"Only ten bucks."
"All right—give us one." Nin pulled a ten-spot out.
"Here, Brother Sam. For your CD and your rap."
"Should I sign it?"
"Please. Sign it, but don't inscribe it," said Nin (whispering to Nan, "resale value!").
"A lyric sheet's inside," said Uncle Sam.
"Enough with the lyrics already," said Nan. "It's time to
leave."
"Read the lyrics," Uncle Sam said, closing his duffel
bag, flipping the guitar back over his shoulder and then
picking up the duffel bag. "Thanks for the beer." "You're welcome, Brother Sam," said Nin, guiding the
"intruder" out the door.
"What an ass!" said Nan as soon as the door closed
behind Uncle Sam. "Do you believe that song? Snicketysnack? Wasn't that a line from Lewis Carroll?"
"I think so. 'The Jabberwocky.'"
"And you! Why were you being so nice to him?" "What do you mean, Nan?"
"Calling him 'Brother Sam'! My gosh!"
"Well, I figured if Uncle Sam is the U.S., then Brother
Sam is the—"
"Oh, that is funny. But why did you buy the CD?" "To get rid of him. Told you he'd be a salesman. That's
all he wanted. So, ten bucks and now he's gone. That was
simple, and relatively cheap. Imagine if he'd been a Bible
Salesman ? We'd have spent ten times that."
"Yeah, because we like the Bible."
"Well, we'll give this a listen. Maybe it'll sound better
all produced and slicked up."
"I hope so, because it reeked live."
"Okay, I'll put it on."
"Not now. We just survived it once. Let's regain our
strength first," implored Nan.
"Oh, no. Then you'll never get around to it. I know you.
Now or never."
"Later. You can't catch me with a false dilemma." "And you won't catch me with Big-Legged Emma." "Zappa! That's right. Your Brother Sam doesn't seem to
know Zappa."
"My brother? Fine. I don't care if we ever listen to the
CD. Even if it is about us."
"Just to us, I think," said Nan.
"How do you know? What does 'skooby skippy' mean,
or whatever he said? It could be an insult in his own personal secret language."
"Like Magma? What was their language? Kobaian?" "I think so. That sounds right. But that's not what it
was."
"You don't think so?"
"No—I'm pretty sure it was just scat."
"Scat? It was B.S.!"
"Ha! No," said Nin, laughing. "Scat! As in Scatman Crothers. Zippy de zow eye! He had a version of 'Be-Bop-ALula' that rocked! But he was big with scat singing!" "Big scat? B.S."
"Oh, back to your Zappa with your potty humor, you!" "Anyway, that crap of your Brother Sam's was no language. Heck, that fool didn't even speak his own language
well," and then he added with a sarcastic snort, "Kobaian." "Didn't Nirvana sing in Kobaian also?"
"No—that was Cobainian."
"Well, in both cases, the bands didn't care if anyone
could understand the lyrics. So why do we have to?"
Chapter Five: The CD
Two weeks later, they still hadn't heard the CD. They were sitting around bored one afternoon when Nin asked, "What do you want to do?"
Nan absently replied, "Nothing particular. Anything you want is okay."
Nin leapt up and grabbed the CD case. "Ah, ha! In that case, we are now listening to this."
"No! I didn't mean I'd agree to anything."
"Yes, that's precisely what you did say, and I'm holding you to it right now."
"Well, let's at least smoke some satistiva first."
"Okay. We can do that."
Nan rolled up a cigarette, and they shared it down to the end before Nin stood up and grabbed the CD case again. Nan was too stoned to object.
The CD player gave Nin a little trouble at first, but in a few seconds, the sound of a faint church bell tolling could be heard. Nin sat next to Nan on the couch and folded the lyric sheet open for them to read.
That's rather cliché, thought Nan. He stole that from AC/DC. And then the buzzsaw lyrics began. Bombs dropping. Okay. Got that. Sector Blue? The blue part of the election map? The Democrats?
Gravel-blind? And two types of apple? This makes no sense. Smashing? Ragnarok? The end of time?
What? The signs come down in flames? Like the pea sign or bean sign or whatever it was? Erasure of agents' names? The buried? The road get taken down? Shit—he is singing about us? "He can't do that," said Nan out loud.
"We're no James Gang," said Nin.
"Listen—what the fuck? He's trying to incite people against us! He wants a lynching!"
"Death to us? Wait—which one's the infidel? Which is god-fearing?"
"Oh, jeez. What are we going to do?"
"Ignore it."
"Ignore it? He's going to spread this song around until even the police like it."
"Oh—I remember reading an interview with Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo, and he said the scariest thing was that, when Devo was arrested for obscenity, the cops in the jailhouse started a conga line and removed their belts and snapped them in a dance circle to the CD of 'Whip It.' And they sang along, knowing all the words!"
"Maybe that's why he quit Devo and began writing music for Rugrats and other cartoons."
"Maybe," said Nin. "I still don't know if I get it all, even with the lyrics right here. The gibberish is beginning to sound like the Beatles' fake Italian in 'Sun King.'"
"Fake Italian or Kobaian?"
"Oh, shut up. Let me think."
"Okay."
They fell silent and went to opposite corners of the room and looked out the nearest window, as if in meditation. The truth was that they both had the dickens scared out of them. Of course, I'm scared of Dickens, too. Horribly out-of-date social satire aimed at targets long since dead. And with Dickens' being paid by the word, by the installment, one could smell something afoul in the air.
"Snap swing is definitely a lynching. We've got to stop him."
"Oh, that's easy," said Nan. "Where did he go?"
"Well, I'd say he went on down the road, but—"
"There isn't any road! We tore it up, remember?"
"Okay, so we just follow his direction."
"Did you see the direction he left in?"
"No. We were busy arguing over petty shit."
"Well, I didn't either. And we have no idea the direction he came from."
"I'd guess from the urban sprawl."
"Well, that would make sense. So, he's heading into the wilderness? That makes no sense, because he has to spread his song."
"He could do that on-line. He could have his own internet radio station dedicated to hating us. They could be building an army against us!"
"Calm down! They can't do any of that until Brother Sam gets here. We have to figure out where he went. Or where he came from."
"Wait! We're assuming that he came from a place other than were he is going. What if this was not a stopover? What if it was the destination? He was on reconnaissance."
"No. I don't think so. That guy was a leader of nothing. Even his bullshit was fake. That's it! A guy who bought dozens of novelty gag gifts to spring on his friends EVERY DAY! But that's a different subject. What were we talking about?"
"I don't know."
"How to catch him. How to corner him and collect him."
"Come now—he is human, after all," said Nin.
"Is he?"
"You're not back on your Kobaian thing again, are you?"
"No. No. No. Sorry," replied Nan.
Nin returned to the center of the room. "If you're right, then Brother Sam might just have come from the nearest city over the hill and returned there!"
"I think that must be, Nin."
"Well, Nin, let's go"
"Should we bring umbrellas?"
Chapter Six: Finding Brother Sam
As soon as they saw a road, Nan broke down. Going on was inconceivable, so they stopped at the closest motel, the Stampeded Antelope.
"Your foot, it needs reinflation," said Nin. They'd been arguing about whether to walk or use the golf cart.
"Yeah, but I rolled," replied Nan, as if that were the answer. Well. Maybe it is the answer. What do I know?
Nan rowed while Nin looked at a map.
"What's up there?" asked Nan, pointing to a spot on the map.
"North," replied Nin.
Up the side of a rocky cliff, alongside mountain goats and big horn sheep, stood the Stampeded Antelope.
Naturally, therefore, the motel was decorated with a pirate motif. Rudders, nets, crabs, steering wheels and harpoons festooned the walls.
A coat of arms featured an oar at the fess point of an escutcheon.
Paintings of large vessels were hung in each room. Nin and Nan's room featured a frigate incongruously named The Estancia. One assumed she had transported cattle.
"Arrrr...," said Nan, in the best possible pirate accent that could be mustered. "They must have been pirate cattle. Arrrr..."
Why pirates? Who knew? The nearest navigable body of water was the Big River, some 200 m
iles away. As far as Nin knew, pirates had never broached it.
The lobby sported another incongruity—a loaded and ready freewheeling trebuchet, pointed at the front door in case of a Viking incursion, perhaps.
The motel restaurant was called Captain Snagglebeard's, and Nin and Nan ordered "all-u-can-eat" clam strips from the limited menu.
Nan asked the one-eyed waiter if the restaurant carried HoJo cola, but the waiter stared back blankly and shook his head.
"Ow!" said Nan. "Stop shaking my head!"
"Arrr...," said the waiter, "then don't ask impertinent questions, if ye know what's good for ya."
After the waiter left. Nan asked Nin, "Who are Ye and Ya? Are they cousins of ours?"
"Shut up, will you? Drink your grog."
The atmosphere of the restaurant began changing later in the evening, and the waiters began leading the dining patrons in a sea chanty sing-along and, as Nan called it, Okefenokee Karaoke.
"Our ship, it sails at morning tide— I signed aboard to leave my bride. I'd met her when the night was young and so was she, but not for long. I went to bed aged 24
but woke up with a toothless whore. Ten thousand pints can't wash away what happened to me on that day. Ten thousand knots I now must sail Before I forget that harpooned whale..."
And so forth. Very uncomfortably sexist. Mindless. Of course. He could never mind his manners.
He starts the lawnmower. Now, briefly, he is alone. Then he turns, and you see him. You turn also.
He exceeds the posted speed limit for Buckhorn. 99¢ a 6-pack. And that's just the fine. Old way is different from the new way.
Older is newer.
Only squares get around.
"Our names? Oh, sorry. We are, as you know, Late Night Traditions."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Oh—I was just talking."
"No. You were dreaming," said Nin, propping up Nan.
"'I Have a Dream,'" laughed the collapsible one.
"Okay, over here. Just lie down in bed. Sleep it off." Nin unceremoniously stepped away from being Nan's crutch, and Nan crumpled onto the bed and was out cold. Good thing's Nan's not face down, thought Nin. Nan can't die like Hendrix.
The Unwelcome Guest Plus Nin and Nan Page 7