The Cry of the Sloth

by Sam Savage

  Much love,

  Andy

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  My very first memory is of Mama brushing her hair. It was a dry evening and in the arid gloaming I could see little sparks leaping between brush and hair like fleas. Bright fleas. It was my first inkling of the role electricity plays in our lives. My earliest memory is of Mama’s hand. It was alabaster. It was pale and blue-veined. It was a delicate blue-veined hand bespeaking aristocracy. I lay in my lace-draped bassinet on the porch. She was talking on the phone—to whom I wonder?—and she was saying (I remember the words clearly, though of course it was many months before I developed a vocabulary large enough to understand their meaning, and until that time I could only con them mutely to myself in meaningless incantation): “Send up a chuck roast and some potatoes, two pounds of asparagus, a quart of milk, and a box of Tide.” I think back on this memory often, and I marvel how people were once able to order groceries by phone Shit shit shit

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  Dear Mr. Poltavski,

  In response to your request for submission guidelines, I enclose our standard statement. I wish more people would ask for our guidelines before submitting inappropriate material that wastes my time as well as theirs. And thank you for including a stamped return envelope, which not enough of you do either.

  A. Whittaker, Editor

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  GUIDELINES FOR SUBMISSION

  Soap is a national journal devoted to all forms of literary art, including short fiction, poetry, essays, and reviews. We publish six regular issues a year, plus two annual anthologies. Our contributors include established writers of international reputation as well as talented newcomers. Though we are always happy to see artists breaking new ground, whether in content or in form, we do not have any criteria for publication other than literary excellence. In the current acerbic climate of American letters, with unrestrained emotional outbursts on the one side (the remains of the so-called Beat movement) and amorphous piles of pseudomodernist gibberish on the other, Soap steers a middle course. We do not publish devotional materials, greeting card verses, or anything embroidered on cloth. While satire is welcome, the rule for personal invective is KEEP IT CLEAN. Obscenity is tolerated but must not be hurled in the direction of anyone still alive. Originality is a requirement. Characters must not be named K or X. Manifestos must advocate positions no one has ever heard of. We do not publish works in any language but English. While foreign phrases may be sprinkled here and there, a whole lot of that will result in your work being rejected as pretentious trash. All submissions must be typed and double-spaced. Multipage works must be numbered. Contributors are rewarded with two free copies and a twenty percent discount on any additional copies. Submitters should heed the two cardinal rules of carefree publishing. Cardinal Rule #1: DO NOT SEND YOUR ONLY COPY. Cardinal Rule #2: INCLUDE A STAMPED SELF-ADDRESSED RETURN ENVELOPE. A simultaneous violation of both rules will be punished by the utter obliteration of your work.

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  Dear Mrs. Lessep,

  Thanks for letting us read, once again, “The Mistletoe’s Little Shoes.” After careful consideration, we have concluded that this work still does not meet our needs. I am sorry you were misled by the phrase “does not meet our needs at this time” into thinking you should submit it again. In the publishing world “at this time” really means “forever.”

  A. Whittaker,

  Editor at Soap

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  Dear Mr. Carmichael,

  Old people can be difficult, as you must know, and yet they have to be treated kindly, as they are still people. And of course you and I would like to be treated kindly when we become old, as we surely must, even if we end up belonging to that class of unpleasant old persons who are constantly complaining. We are led by natural human impulse to always blame the complainers, just because they are so annoying, without looking deeper into the matter. I say this in order to explain to myself why, since my mother has apparently spoken to you personally about her problems with the attendant Elaine Robinson more than once, no remedy has been forthcoming. This is not right. But rather than joining the list of annoying complainers myself, I thought I would lay out the facts and let you be the judge.

  Elaine came to work at Old Ivy Glen shortly after Christmas last year, replacing Dotty. My mother welcomed the change at first, since Dotty had passed most of her shifts droning on about things that not even a lonely bedridden old lady could possibly find interesting. As a consequence, my mother spent much of her first year at Old Ivy Glen pretending to be asleep. Enter Elaine Robinson: big-bosomed and cheerful, with the happy-go-lucky outlook on life that we all find so refreshing in her people. My mother comes from a prominent old Southern family, and she has always felt very close to Negroes of all kinds, and at first she and Elaine seemed to “hit it off.” I vividly remember walking down the hall toward Mother’s room during one of my monthly visits and overhearing the two of them in warm conversation, Elaine’s earthy laughter churning beneath the trills and runs of Mama’s little cackles, a slow river, as it were, burbling beneath a mountain brook. My heart leaped, and I exhaled a silent “thank you” to Old Ivy Glen.

  Alas, like so many good things, this joy was premature. Those early sprouts of friendship, if that is what they were, were destined to wither in April, when Mama’s mind began to wander. She migrated, figuratively speaking, into the storied past, imagining that she was a child in Georgia in slave times, that Old Ivy Glen was her dear old Oakwood restored to its former glory, that Winston, her old Labrador, was a puppy again, and that Elaine was her beloved Feena, the devoted female servant who had helped raise her in later, sadder times, when the family could scarcely pay the light bill, much less Feena, who was content with a small room and cornbread.

  One might expect that a nursing professional like Elaine would redouble her sympathy at such moments, that she might indeed take pleasure in joining an old lady on her harmless time-travels, get a kick out of playing a role in these really rather charming fantasies about “the days that are no more.” But no! I vividly recall the moment when I realized that the tide of friendship at which I had earlier rejoiced had sunk to a dangerously low ebb. I was sitting with Mama in her room, not talking, but sharing a few minutes of quiet communion, when Elaine and another dark girl came bustling in to change the bedding, laughing and chatting in loud voices about God knows what. This sudden interruption of our communion provoked Mama to open her eyes wide and, seeing the two women standing at the foot of her bed, no doubt dimly, since she was not wearing her glasses, to observe that “there sure are a lot of Feenas around here.” I thought this was very funny. Yet I saw right away that Mrs. Robinson was going to let hypersensitiveness spoil the joke for her. I fear I inadvertently made matters worse by continuing to laugh despite her scowling expression.

  Since that day I have received reports that Elaine is “getting even” with Mama, tormenting her in numerous aggravating ways. I recognize that some of Mama’s complaints are evident exaggerations. None of us think it plausible that Elaine has let hundreds of rats loose in Mama’s room. And even if she had, how could she have made them disappear in the morning? But still, I think we cannot be too careful where fragile old people are concerned. I am not at this time demanding the dismissal of Mrs. Robinson. I ask merely that you keep an eye peeled and make qui vive your motto.

  With filial concern,

  A. Whittaker

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  Dear Vikki,

  I’ve read your latest batch, only wish I could print all eight of them. Since that ain’t possible, I want to use “Sally at the Pump,” “Calypso,” and “Needles and Pins.” Lots of terrific stuff in the mailbox lately, stuff I just couldn’t turn down. As a result, the mag is way overbooked and I can’t work yours in before next summer, at the earliest. Sorry about that and I promise and hope to die no hard feelings here should you want to try someplace else. Overbooked and underfunded—that’s it in a nutshell. The result of the last mail appeal was, frankly, disappointing in t
he extreme. I know everybody is thoroughly fed up by now with my pleas for handouts, so I’m all the more grateful to the handful of loyalists like you and Chumley and a few others who have stuck by me over the years. I’ve put so much blood and treasure into the magazine, when it hits a rough patch I get just frantic. With the two of you gone, and Jolie gone, I’m more isolated than ever down here. The fact is I’m unspeakably lonely at times. Things have gotten much worse between me and Fran and the swarm of toadies at The Art News. We don’t even pretend anymore. When I cross one of them in the street, he or she (in fact, it’s always she) looks the other direction. I love the way their ponytails flick to the side when they jerk their heads around so as not to look at me. I usually send a raspberry after them when they do that. Sometimes they answer by swinging their hips in an exaggerated manner as they stump off, a female gesture that, I must confess, I have never understood. Do you? All this would be just laughable if it were not so infuriating. And of course, aside from not inviting me to their parties, thank God for that, they’re doing everything in their power to prevent my symposium project from ever getting off the ground. I have it on good authority that Fran referred to it at an Arts Council Grant Committee meeting as “Andy’s aberration”—she’s going to make damn sure I don’t get one red penny from them. The Rapid Falls Current ran an article last week on the local scene. They didn’t even bother to contact me. I’d love to just forget the whole business, take a couple of weeks off, and drive up and visit you two. But with money this tight, plus a million things to do here, there’s no way I can swing it. I’m forty-three years old. I’m not supposed to be doing this. Give Chumley a punch in the snout from me, and tell him to send me some photos of the stuff he’s doing.

  Missing you both,

  Andy

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  Dear Mr. Freewinder,

  Yes, I did receive your earlier letter, and I want you to know that we are, as you suggested, taking vigorous steps, that I personally am taking them. Indeed, things are happening even as I write. This may not be apparent, since they are happening mostly behind the scenes, so to speak, and in small increments, little bits at a time, which are nevertheless accumulating. It is true that The Whittaker Company has hit a rough patch. The problem can be traced to an unusually long run of low-quality tenants, and not to my casual management style, as you describe it. I am working vigorously to root those low-quality ones out and to get better-quality ones in. As you can well imagine, this is difficult to bring off as long as the poor-quality ones are still there, sitting on the steps in their undershirts. It will take time. We are upgrading at every turn. If you can persuade American Midlands to suspend the loan repayments for a few months, you will all be pleasantly surprised.

  Sincerely,

  Andrew Whittaker

  The Whittaker Company

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  Dear Mr. Goodall,

  Thanks for letting us read your collection of poems “Swinging the Mattock.” After careful consideration, we have reluctantly concluded that the work does not meet our needs at this time.

  Andrew Whittaker, Editor

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  If I could see myself clearly for one moment; even in the mirror. One day I behold there an imposing man of considerable dignity. He ought to sport a gray fedora, but I don’t have one for him. Of course he would not wear a hat indoors anyway, unless he happened to be a policeman. If he were a policeman, it would be some kind of detective, homicide probably. I love the way he shrugs. They say, “we love his slow shrug.” That shrug is a perfect mingling of confidence and disdain, with just a smidgen of despair. He is not the kind of man to use a phrase like “smidgen of despair,” though. He would not say “smidgen” or “despair,” and certainly not both together. What if he wanted to put a little something in something? He wouldn’t cook, so it couldn’t be salt, though if he did he would say “dash.”

  And sometimes I see a different man, one who is not imposing but lumbering, bloated; I want to say he is receding. I notice how his cheeks puff out. He doesn’t seem to have a definite shape, or the shape has blurred edges. He is not clever with his hands, I am sure of that. He is always breaking things, like lockets that people have asked him to fix. He snaps the delicate gold chain, and the locket slips off and gets lost down a heat vent; it contains her only picture of her grandmother. His piano teacher called him sausage fingers. He doesn’t have a hat either, though he ought to wear one, because his hair is thinning; under the fluorescent light in the room with the mirror his scalp is blue-gray and scaly. In the case of the first man, words like “adamantine” and “steely” come to mind. In the case of the second, the words are “gooey,” or maybe “runny” and “amorphous.” His—or their—jaw “juts” on the one hand, “hangs” on the other. A man without qualities. I remember Jolie saying she would never marry anybody as ambiguous as I am.

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  Dear Dahlberg,

  A note to let you know that the larcenous literary postman who you feared had made off with your MS has apparently had a change of heart. It arrived this afternoon, battered but intact. I had not expected anything quite so huge; we might have to spread it out over several numbers. I can’t look at it now, as I’m on my way out. Just want you to know I have it and am looking forward to reading it.

  Andy

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  PLACE ALL TRASH IN METAL RECEPTACLES LOCATED AT THE BACK OF THE BUILDING

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  Dear Mr. Stumphill,

  Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your work. The story has some fine parts, though it is much too long, not just for our magazine but for most readers not familiar with apiculture. The bees have a lot of personality, but there are too many of them and their names are confusing. The murder, while gruesome, is not plausible, since how could the bees know which brother had taken the shirt? Bob Curry lives up your way. If you run into him, transmit my greetings.

  Sincerely,

  A. Whittaker, Editor

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  Dear Sirs,

  This morning I woke to discover that my telephone is no longer making a friendly buzzing sound when I press it to my ear. It makes no sound at all, and that is a VERY BAD THING. I am aware of the sum I owe you, I do not dispute the legitimacy of your case. Whenever I could I have sent little sums which were more than pocket change. I have showed good faith. I have a business to run. It may not look like a business to you, but it is one to me. If it is not advertised in the yellow pages that is only because I could not AFFORD to advertise it in the yellow pages. You should have thought of that. I explained to Mrs. Slippert in person that if she cut off my phone I would probably NEVER be in a position to pay you. That was an appeal to your self-interest, and the fact that it had no effect rebounds to your credit. So now I appeal to your heart. I am on my knees. This is painful to my pride. PLEASE restore my service. Six more months and I will pay you in full. You have my word on that.

  Very sincerely,

  Andrew W. Whittaker

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  DO NOT THROW CIGARETTE BUTTS IN FLOWER POTS

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  Dear Fern Moss,

  After careful consideration the staff at Soap has reluctantly concluded that your poems are not a good fit for us at this time. However, I don’t feel comfortable returning them to you with only a rejection slip for company. While we endeavor to make these rejections as short and painless as possible, we were all young writers once and know from personal experience the deep wounds they can cause, wounds which in some cases fester for years unseen, only to burst drunkenly forth at someone’s publication party later. Your work has a bold freshness I would hate to see squelched by a thoughtless act of ours.

  I want to say right off the bat that I am surprised Mr. Crawford recommended a journal like Soap as the best place for you to start, though that is certainly testimony to his high opinion of your efforts. Am I wrong in assuming that you have in fact never examined a copy of our publication? Frankly, I fear you would find most of the things we publish quite
depressing, if not downright baffling. Some of it you might find offensive. This of course, while regrettable, cannot be helped.

  That said, I consider your series “Self Portrait in Five” to be exceptional work for someone so young. Mr. Crawford is certainly right that it has “sparkle,” and you deserve all the A’s he can give you. While the poems are not the sort of thing Soap normally publishes, they have genuine poetic energy and real charm. I believe the ones that mention horses would have a good chance of acceptance at Corral or American Pony. My dentist carries both magazines, and I have noticed they regularly publish verse on equine themes, most of it inferior to yours. And there is nothing wrong with starting out small. You make a reputation there and then you move on. That’s how we all did it.

  I am only too aware how painful it is to have one’s work rejected. It is most painful the first time it happens, before one has acquired the requisite carapace of cynicism. For that reason I want to insist that I see genuine potential in your work. I am truly sorry that we can’t use your submission this time. We will of course be happy to consider your work in the future, though I recommend you familiarize yourself with the sort of writing we publish before sending along anything else.

  Best wishes,

  A. Whittaker, Editor at Soap

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